CHAPTER XII
THE PROFESSOR’S ASSISTANT
Joe Strong slid half-way across the “side-door Pullman,” as he had called the freight car into which he had jumped from the station platform. One cause for his sliding was the force of his jump, the momentum carrying him. Another reason was because the floor of the car was covered with bits of dried hay, which is always slippery.
“A hay car!” exclaimed Joe, as his nose caught the odor that was so familiar to him. “Been loaded with baled hay. I’m glad I struck something as clean as that. Might just as well have jumped into a car that had been filled with fertilizer, or something else not nice to smell all night. Yes, I guess I’m in luck.”
The train was now swinging along at a good pace, and Joe proceeded to make himself comfortable for his long ride which, at best, was not going to be any too easy for him.
The youth chuckled to himself as he thought of the two town policemen vainly seeking him.
“That’s another time I gave Hen Sylvester the slip,” murmured Joe with a smile in the darkness.
Though the hay car had been unloaded there still remained on the floor a quantity of the fodder. With his feet Joe made this into a pile in one corner, and there he intended to lie down to get some sleep if he could. The night was warm, and he needed no covering. But he slid the door partly shut to keep out some of the dirt and cinders.
“This isn’t going to improve the appearance of my clothes—sleeping in ’em,” he mused. “Guess I’ll take off my coat and vest. I can save them a little that way, anyhow.”
Then Joe stretched out on his improvised bed and drew a long breath.
“Well, so far so good,” he told himself. “I’m on my way. Now the rest is up to Professor Rosello. I’ll see him in the morning.”
Joe did not easily go to sleep, though he was tired. He had a burden on his mind, and he was not a little worried.
“I wonder what the deacon will think when he wakes up and finds me gone?” thought Joe. “I guess it will surprise him.”
If Joe only knew!
Finally drowsiness came, and he slumbered through the rest of the night. The train rattled on, stopping now and then at stations to pick up or leave freight, but Joe knew nothing of this. He had thought that perhaps he might be put off the car by some brakeman, but he decided he must take chances on this. And, as it happened, he was not disturbed.
Joe was awakened by the sudden jolting stop of the train, and, as he opened his eyes he saw, through the partly shut door, that the sun was brightly shining.
“Good-morning—morning!” cried the lad. “I wonder what you have up your sleeve for me?”
Though he tried to be jolly with himself, he was not in very good shape for joking. He was lame and stiff from sleeping on the hay-bed, and he felt the need of washing, as any one does, even if he travels in a real Pullman. Then, too, he was hungry.
“Wonder if we hit anything then?” Joe asked himself, for the train seemed to have stopped with unusual suddenness. “Guess I’ll take a look out.”
He peered from the door, and saw that the train was in a large railroad yard. On several adjoining tracks were lines of freight cars, and, as Joe looked out, he saw the engine that had been pulling his train going off toward the round house.
“This must be Lorilard,” thought Joe. “It’s the end of the run. That bump must have been some other cars they switched on to the end of this train. Well, I’ve arrived, it seems. Now to get busy, find the professor and——But first I guess I’d better get a wash and have something to eat,” he reflected. “I can’t look very presentable.”
Joe put on his vest and coat, picked up his valise and was about to jump down out of the freight car into the yard, when he saw a trainman approaching.
“I’d better wait until he passes,” Joe thought. “He might make it hot for me.”
There is a law against unauthorized persons riding on freight trains, and though some brakemen often let tramps and other persons “steal” a ride, still most railroad men are not as lenient, and not infrequently throw off, or “beat-up,” those who “ride the brake-rods,” or crawl into the empty cars.
Joe drew back, but the man did not pass on. Instead he busied himself tacking up shipping cards on several cars near the one Joe was in.
“I wish he’d go!” reflected our hero. “I want to get out. I’m almost starved.”
Finally the man moved farther down the track, and Joe took this chance to emerge. He dropped to the ground, but, unluckily, just then the yard-master, for he it was, turned and saw the young wizard.
“Here, you!” he roared. “What do you mean? Stealing a ride? I’ll fix you!” and he started to run after Joe.
But Joe was a good sprinter, and, though he was rather stiff from his uncomfortable bed, he was more than a match for the yard-master. Seeing that the “tramp,” as he supposed him to be, was distancing him, the man caught up an iron coupling pin and threw it at Joe.
If it had hit the youth it might have hurt him badly, but the yard-master’s aim was no better than his running, and Joe was soon safely out of his reach. There came a break in the line of freight cars, and Joe slipped through this, thus getting out of sight.
“And I’d better stop running, I reckon,” he thought, “or some other trainman may think it suspicious to see me in such a hurry.”
He slowed down to a walk, and presently emerged from the yard into a street.
“Will you kindly direct me to a hotel?” asked Joe of the first man he met. “I’m a stranger in town. I don’t want an expensive place.”
“There’s the Railroad House, just down at the foot of this street,” the man said, looking at Joe curiously. “I can’t recommend it, though it’s cheap enough. Then there’s the Boswell, three blocks up that way and two over,” and he indicated the directions. “I stop there myself. It’s good and not expensive.”
“Thank you,” Joe said. “I’ll try that.”
“Just get in?” asked the man, and he smiled.
“Yes,” answered the young magician. “My special car was just switched off for me!” and he laughed as he turned away.
He found the Boswell to be just about the kind of hotel that came within his limited means. He did not want to engage a room until after he had seen Professor Rosello, and he was not sure where the magician was stopping. But he could easily inquire.
The hotel clerk was friendly, and agreed to look after Joe’s valise while our hero had breakfast. Joe indulged in a good wash and ate a hearty meal.
On inquiry at the hotel desk when he claimed his satchel, he found that the professor was going to give a performance that night. The clerk did not know where Professor Rosello was staying, but Joe thought he could find out by inquiring at the Opera House, as the local amusement place was called.
As Joe made his way thither he saw, posted in various parts of the town, large announcements of the “world-wide famous and renowned magician, prestidigitator and sleight-of-hand artist, Professor Alonzo Rosello.”
“He’s the one I’m looking for all right,” thought Joe. “Now to see what’s doing.”
He inquired his way to the Opera House and entered the lobby. There was no one in the ticket office, for it was early yet.
A woman was scrubbing the oilcloth on the floor of the entrance.
“Is Professor Rosello about?” asked Joe.
“Who’s he?” inquired the woman, who appeared to be slightly deaf, if her loud tones counted for anything.
“He’s the prestidigitator—the magician——”
The old woman shook her head.
“I don’t know none of them foreign languages,” she said. “You’ll have to speak plain English. And my name ain’t Maggie, neither.”
“I didn’t say Maggie—I said magician,” and Joe spoke louder. “I’m looking for Professor Rosello. Him!” he exclaimed, as he saw, hanging on the wall one of the magician’s bills, containing what was supposed to be a likeness of him in evening clothes, with a little red imp whispering secrets in his ear.
“Oh, him! That feller what does tricks? He’s back on the stage,” said the old woman, resuming her scrubbing.
Taking this as an invitation to go back, Joe made his way to the rear of the theatre. There was a single light on the stage, and Joe could see the professor moving about, arranging some of his apparatus in anticipation of the evening’s performance. And Joe heard the magician talking loudly, and as if very much disturbed about something.
“It couldn’t have happened at a much worse time!” exclaimed the professor. “I don’t see what possessed him to run away and leave me just when I needed him. I don’t know what I’m to do. I’ll have to omit some of my best illusions! It’s too bad!”
Joe kept on down the aisle, and, passing through one of the boxes, reached the stage, which was not yet “set” for the performance.
He then saw Professor Rosello talking to a stage-hand, and went over to speak to him.
“Well, what is it?” asked the professor, not recognizing Joe, for the place was dark.
“Don’t you remember me?” our hero questioned. “I’m Joe Strong who——”
“Well met! Say, but I am glad to see you!” cried the magician, heartily. “Perhaps you’re just the very one who can help me out!”
“Well, I’ll be very glad if I can,” said Joe. “I came to you to ask you to help me. I want a place where I can earn my living. I’ve run away from home, and I’m going to learn to be a magician. I thought perhaps——”
“Tell me the details later!” cut in the professor. “I’m in a peck of trouble now. My assistant, whom I always have with me when I play in the larger towns, left me in a fit of anger, and just when I needed him most. He wanted more money than I could afford to pay, and I’m left in the lurch. Now you know something about illusions, so, perhaps, with a little coaching, you can help me out. Will you do it?”
“Will I?” Joe cried. “Just give me the chance! It’s what I’ve been hoping for all along!”