CHAPTER XV
INVOKING THE LAW
While Joe Strong was thus making his first public appearance as a wizard, or, rather, as a magician’s assistant, quite different scenes were being enacted in his home town and at his former residence.
Deacon Blackford had discovered the fire, found out that he had been robbed, and noted the disappearance of Joe. With these facts confronting himself and his wife, the deacon at once began to act.
“What you going to do?” asked Mrs. Blackford, as he dressed for the street.
“I’m going out,” he answered grimly.
“What! At this time of night?”
“Can’t help it,” was the reply. “I’m going to get the law after him.”
“You mean Joe?”
“I don’t mean anybody else! He robbed me and you, and he’s got to take the consequences! I’m going to look for the constables. Joe can’t have gone very far. I saw him jumping out of the window, but at the time I didn’t know who it was. He robbed me, and he set fire to the place.”
“But he didn’t mean to do that,” said Mrs. Blackford defensively. “According to your tell, he accidentally kicked the lamp with his foot.”
“Accident or no accident, he did it, and I’m going to have the law on him! I’ll get the constables. He’s took a lot of money, and papers worth more. He may have been in league with those rascals, Denton and Harrison,” murmured the deacon. “But, no. I don’t hardly believe that. He didn’t know them. He just did this out of natural badness. Couldn’t expect much else from the son of a circus performer and a worker of the black art.”
He spoke harshly and angrily.
“Maybe there’s some good circus women, and men too, for that matter, Deacon,” said his wife softly.
“No, not one—they’re all dishonest!” Mr. Blackford declared. “But I’ll get the law after Joe.”
He made ready for the street, though it was a most unusual hour for Deacon Blackford to be out. But the occasion was unusual.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he told his wife.
Out into the night went the deacon, his brain rather in a whirl over the recent events. He walked down the silent streets, his footsteps echoing loudly. He headed for the center of the town where the police station was located, for the two constables reported at this place once or twice during the night.
Hen Sylvester and Tim Donovan had been having adventures of their own in chasing Joe. But they had missed him, and when they saw him fling himself, rather rashly, into the open freight car, which quickly bore him away from them, they turned back much chagrined.
“He got away!” exclaimed Hen.
“That’s what he did,” agreed his companion officer. “I wonder who he was? I wish we could have caught him. He was a burglar.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Hen. “Now we’ll have to go back to town, and find out who was robbed.”
Back to the police station went the two constables, panting somewhat after their fruitless run. They reached the lockup about the same time Deacon Blackford did. There were no prisoners in the jail then, so the services of a watchman were temporarily dispensed with.
Hen and Tim saw a figure walking along the street near the little building that contained a few cells. Their previous experience had made them suspicious of any one abroad at this hour.
“There’s another one of ’em!” exclaimed Hen.
“Another who?” asked his fellow officer.
“Burglar. We’ll get him. Come on!”
Determined that this second midnight prowler should not get away the two constables made a rush for him.
“We’ve got you!” cried Hen.
“Surrender!” yelled Tim, drawing his revolver.
“Here! Let me go! What does this mean?” cried Joe’s foster-father.
At the sound of his voice the two constables released their holds and stepped back.
“Deacon Blackford!” they gasped.
“That’s who I am,” was the response. “But what does this mean?”
“We—we took you for a burglar,” explained Hen. “We chased one a while ago, and missed him, and we were suspicious when we saw you.”
“What are you doing out so late?” asked Tim.
“I came to report a robbery.”
“Where?” asked both officers eagerly.
“At my house. I’ve been robbed of some money and valuable papers. Some of my wife’s money was also taken.”
“What did I tell you!” wailed Hen Sylvester. “I knew that burglar who got away took something! If we had only caught him!”
“Did you see him?” quickly inquired the deacon.
“Yes, but we couldn’t see his face—couldn’t tell who he was,” explained Tim.
“I can tell you who he was!” announced the deacon, importantly.
“You?” gasped both constables.
“Yes! He was Joe Strong!”
“Joe Strong? What! Not your——”
“My foster-son,” broke in the deacon. “I regret to say that he has run away with money and valuable papers belonging to me. I want him arrested. I’ll swear out a warrant in the morning. But if you look for him now you may find him. Arrest him on sight!”
“No use looking now,” said Hen, despondently.
“Why not?”
“Because he took the midnight freight. We saw him jump into an empty car as the train was pulling out of the station. I knew he must have been up to some mischief, or he wouldn’t have run the way he did.”
Then Tim and Hen, by turns, told of their fruitless chase after Joe.
“We didn’t know who he was until you told us,” said Hen to the deacon, “but we suspected he was a burglar. Did he get much?”
The deacon told the details of the robbery, the fire and its extinguishment, and how he had set out to invoke the law on his runaway foster-son.
“I want him arrested and locked up,” he told the constables.
“We’ll have to catch him first,” said Tim, with a shake of his head, “and there’s no telling where he might jump off the freight. We’ll have to send out posters with his picture on, same as the regular police do. Were you thinking of offering a reward?” he asked.
“No,” answered the deacon. “At least not yet. We’ll try to catch him without one first. Later on—well, I’ll see.”
There was nothing more to be done that night, and in the morning Deacon Blackford swore out a warrant for Joe’s arrest.