The circus train bumped along for a few hundred feet, the engine meanwhile madly whistling, the wheels rattling over the wooden sleepers, and inside the various cars, where the performers had been suddenly awakened from their sleep, pandemonium reigned.
"What's the matter?" called Benny Turton from his berth near Joe's.
"Off the track—that's all," was the answer, given in a reassuring voice. For Joe had, somehow or other, grasped the fact there was no great danger unless they ran into something, and this, as yet, had not happened.
The train was off the track (or at least some of the coaches were) but it was quickly slowing down, and Joe, by a quick glance at his watch, made a mental calculation of their whereabouts.
For several miles in the vicinity where the accident had occurred was a long, and comparatively straight stretch of track, with no bridges and no gullies on either side. A train running off the track, even if going at fairly fast speed, would hardly topple over.
Before starting out that night Joe had inquired of one of the men about the journey, and, learning that they were approaching his former home, the town of Bedford, he had looked up the route and the time of arrival at their next stopping place. He had a quick mind, and he remembered about where they should be at the time the accident occurred. In that way he was able to determine that, unless they struck something, they were in comparatively little danger.
"Off the track—that's all!" repeated Benny Turton as he looked down from his berth at Joe. "Isn't that enough? Wow! What's going on now?"
The train had stopped with a jolt. The air brakes, which the engineer had flung on at the first intimation of danger, had taken hold of the wheels with a sudden grip.
"This is the last stop," said Joe, and he smiled up at Benny. He could do so now, for he felt that their coach, at least, was safe. But he was anxious as to what had happened to the others. Helen, with many of the other women performers, was in the coach ahead.
Benny crawled down from his berth, and stood looking at Joe.
"It doesn't seem to worry you much," he remarked.
"Not as long as there's nothing worse than this," Joe answered. "You're not hurt, are you?"
"Only my feelings."
"Well, you'll get over that. Let's see what's up."
By this time the aisle of the car was filled with excited men performers. They all wanted to know what had happened, their location and various other bits of information.
"The train jumped the track," said Joe, who appeared the coolest of the lot. "We don't seem to have hit anything, though at first I thought we had. We're right side up, if not exactly with care."
"Where are we?" demanded Tonzo Lascalla.
"We ought to be near Far Hills, according to the time table," Joe answered. "If I could get a look out I could tell."
He went to the end of the car and peered out. It was a bright moonlight night, and Joe was able to recognize the locality. As a boy he had tramped all around the country within twenty-five miles of Bedford, in the vicinity of which they now were, and he had no difficulty in placing himself. He found that he had guessed correctly.
By this time there was an excited crowd of trainmen and circus employees outside the coaches which had left the rails. Joe and some of the others slipped on their clothes and went out to see what had happened.
Joe's first glance was toward the coach in which he knew Helen rode. He was relieved to see that though it had also left the rails it was standing upright. In fact, none of the cars had tilted more than was to be expected from the accident.
"Well, this is a nice pickle!" exclaimed Jim Tracy, bustling up. "This means no parade, and maybe no afternoon show. How long will it take you to get us back on the rails?" he asked one of the brakemen.
"Hard to say," was the answer. "We'll have to send for the wrecking crew. Lucky it's no worse than a delay."
"Yes, I suppose so," agreed the ring-master. It was only one train of the several that made up the circus which had left the rails. The animal cars were on ahead, safe, and the sections following the derailed coaches had, by a fortunate chance, not left the rails.
"What caused us to jump?" asked Benny.
"There was a fish plate jammed in a switch," answered one of the brakemen. "We found it beside the track where we knocked it out, and that saved the other trains from doing as we did."
"A fish plate in the switch?" repeated Joe. "Did it get there by accident?"
"Ask me something easier," quoted the brakeman. "It might have, and again it might not. I understand you discharged a lot of men at your last stop, and it may be some of them tried to get even with you."
It was true that a number of canvasmen had been allowed to go because they were found useless, but none of the circus men believed that these individuals would do so desperate a deed as to try to wreck the train.
Joe thought of the threatening letter he had received—Sim Dobley was the writer, he was sure—but even Sim would hardly try anything like this. He might feel vindictive against Joe, and try to do him some harm or bring about Joe's discharge.
But to wreck a train——
"I don't believe he'd do that," reasoned Joe. "I won't mention the letter—it would hardly be fair. I don't want to get him into trouble, and I have no evidence against him."
So Joe kept quiet.
The circus trains ahead of the derailed one could keep on to their destination. After some delay those in the rear were switched to another track, and so passed around the stalled cars.
Then the wrecking crew arrived, and just as the first gray streaks of dawn showed the last of the cars was put back on the track.
"Well, we're off again," remarked Joe, as, with Benny and some of their friends, they got back in their berths.
"Not much more chance for sleep, though," the "human fish" remarked, dolefully enough.
"Oh, I think I can manage to get some," said, Joe, as he covered up, for the morning was a bit chilly.
"I hope my glass tank didn't get cracked in the mix-up," remarked Benny. "It wouldn't take much to make that leak, and I've had troubles enough of late without that."
"Oh, I guess it's perfectly safe," remarked Joe, sleepily.
The excitement caused by the derailing was soon forgotten. Circus men are used to strenuous happenings. They live in the midst of excitement, and a little, more or less, does not bother them. Most of them slept even through the work of getting the train back on the rails.
Of course the circus was late in getting in—that is the derailed train with its quota of performers was. Early in the morning, when they should have been on the siding near the grounds, the train was still puffing onward.
Joe arose, got a cup of coffee in the buffet car, and went on ahead to inquire about Helen and some of his friends in the other coach.
"Oh, I didn't mind it much," Helen said, when Joe asked her about it. "I felt a few bumps, and I thought we had just struck a poor spot in the roadbed."
"She hasn't any more nerves than you have, Joe Strong," declared Mrs. Talfo, "the fat lady."
"Did you mind it much?" Joe asked.
"Did I? Say, young man, it's a good thing I had a lower berth. I rolled out, and if I had fallen on anybody—well, there might have been a worse wreck! Fortunately no one was under me when I tumbled," and Mrs. Talfo chuckled.
"And you weren't hurt?" asked Joe.
The fat lady laughed. Her sides shook "like a bowlful of jelly," as the nursery rhyme used to state.
"It takes more than a fall to hurt me," said Mrs. Talfo. "I'm too well padded. But we're going to get in very late," she went on with a look at her watch. "The performers should be at breakfast at this time, to be ready for the street parade."
"We may have to omit the parade," said Joe.
"I wouldn't care," declared the fat lady with a sigh. "It does jolt me something terrible to ride over cobble streets, and they never will let me stay out."
"You're quite an attraction," said Joe, with a smile.
"Oh, yes, it's all right to talk about it," sighed Mrs. Talfo, "but I guess there aren't many of you who would want to tip the scales at five hundred and eighty pounds—advertised weight, of course," she added, with a smile. "It's no joke—especially in hot weather."
The performers made merry over the accident now, and speculated as to what might happen to the show. Their train carried a goodly number of the "artists," as they were called on the bills, and without them a successful and complete show could not be given.
"We may even have to omit the afternoon session," Joe stated.
"Who said so?" Helen demanded.
"Mr. Tracy."
"Well, it's better to lose that than to have the whole show wrecked," said the snake charmer. "I remember being in a circus wreck once, and I never want to see another."
"Did any of the animals get loose?" asked Joe.
"I should say they did! We lost a lion and a tiger, and for weeks afterward we had to keep men out hunting for the creatures, which the excited farmers said were taking calves and lambs. No indeed! I don't want any more circus wrecks. This one was near enough."
This brought up a fund of recollected circus stories, and from then on, until the train stopped on the siding near the grounds, the performers took turns in telling what they had known of wrecks and other accidents to the shows with which they had been connected. Joe listened eagerly. It was all new to him.
"I only hope my glass tank isn't cracked," said Benny again. He seemed quite worried about this.
"Well, if it's broken they'll have to get you another," Joe told him. The tank was carried in one of the cars of the derailed train.
"They might, and they might not," said Benny. "My act hasn't been going any too well of late, and maybe they'd be glad of a chance to drop it from the list. I only hope they don't, though, for I need the money."
Benny spoke wistfully. He seemed greatly changed from the boy Joe had known at first. Benny had grown thinner, and he often put his hand to his head, as though suffering constant pain. Joe and Helen felt sorry for him.
Still there was little they could do, except to cheer him up. Benny had to do his own act—which was a unique one that he had evolved after years of practice. It was not alone the staying under water that made it popular, it was the tricks that the lad did.
"Well, we're here at last," said Joe, as he and his friends alighted from their sleeping car. "Better late than never, I suppose."
Men were busy on the circus grounds, putting up tents, arranging the horses and other animals, putting the wagons in their proper places and doing the hundred and one things that need to be done.
"I wonder what's going on over there," said Helen, as she pointed to a group of men about the place where the canvas for the main tent had been spread out in readiness for erection. "It looks like trouble."
"It does," agreed Joe, as he saw Jim Tracy excitedly talking to the canvasmen. "I'm going to see what it is."
He approached the ring-master, who was also one of the owners of the show.
"Anything wrong?" Joe asked.
"Wrong? I should say so! As if I didn't already have troubles enough here, the tent-men go on a strike for more money. I never saw such luck!"
Joe Strong looked from the group of sullen, lowering canvasmen to Jim Tracy. On the ring-master's face were signs of anxiety.
"Is it really a strike?" Joe asked.
"That's what they call it," replied the circus owner. "I didn't know they belonged to a union, and I don't believe they do. They just want to make trouble, and they take advantage of me at a time when I'm tied up because we're late with the show."
"What is it they want?" asked Helen.
"More money," Jim Tracy replied. "I wouldn't mind giving it to them if I could afford it, or if they weren't getting the same wages that are paid other canvasmen in other circuses. But they are. As a matter of fact, they get more, and they have better grub. I can't understand such tactics!"
"It looks as if some of them were coming over to speak to you," remarked Joe, as he observed one of the strikers detach himself from the group, and approach the ring-master.
"Let him come," snapped Jim. "He'll get no satisfaction from me."
The man seemed a bit embarrassed as he approached, chewing a straw nervously. He ignored several of the circus performers, Joe and Helen among them, who were grouped about Jim Tracy, and, addressing the owner, asked:
"Well, have you made up your mind? Is it to be more money for us or no show for you?"
"It's going to be 'no' to your unreasonable demand, and I want to tell you, here and now, that the show's going on. You can go back to your cowardly crowd, that tries to hit a man when he's down, and tell 'em Jim Tracy said that!" cried the ring-master with vigor. "You'll get no more money from me. I'm paying you wages enough as it is!"
"All right, no money—no show!" said the fellow, impudently. "We gave you half an hour to make up your mind, and if that's your answer you can take the consequences."
He started to walk away, and Tracy called after him:
"If you try to interfere or make trouble, and if you try to stop the show, I'll have you all arrested if I have to send for special detectives."
"Oh, we won't make any trouble except what you make for yourself," declared the striker. "We just won't do anything—that'll be the trouble. There's your 'main top,' and there she'll stay. We won't pull a rope or drive a peg!"
He pointed to the pile of canvas with its mass of ropes, poles and pegs that lay on the ground ready for erection. It should have been up by this time, and the parade ought to have been under way. But with the railroad accident, the delay and the strike, the big tent in which Joe, Helen and the others were to perform was not yet raised.
"The cowards!" exclaimed Jim in a low voice; looking at Joe. "I wonder if I'd better give in to 'em?"
"Can you get others to take their places?" the young trapeze acrobat wanted to know.
"Not here. I could if I were nearer New York. But as it is——" He threw up his hands with a gesture of despair. "I guess I'll have to give in," he said. "I can't afford not to give a show. Here, you——"
He called to the departing striker.
"Wait a minute!" Joe quickly exclaimed to the ring-master. "I think we can find a way out of this."
"How?"
"Have you any men who know something about putting up the tent?"
"I know all there is to be known about it myself. But it takes more than one man to raise the 'main top.' There are a lot of the animal men and wagon drivers who used to be canvas hands. They haven't struck. But there aren't enough of them. It's no use."
"Yes, it is!" cried Joe. "We men performers will turn canvasmen for the time being. Give us some hands who know how to lay out the canvas, how to lace up the different sections, which ropes to pull on; men to show us how to drive stakes and to haul up the poles—do that and we'll have the tent up in time for the show!"
"Can you do it?" cried the ring-master, in an eager tone.
"Sure we can!" exclaimed Joe. "There are enough of us, and we're willing to turn in. You get the men who know how, and we'll be their assistants."
"It might work," said Tracy, reflectively. "I'm much obliged to you, Joe. It's worth trying. But do you think the performers will do it?"
"I'll talk to 'em," said the trapeze artist. "They'll be glad to raise the tent, rather than see a performance given up. Go get your men and I'll talk to the others."
"All right—I will."
"Did you call me?" asked the striker who had been appointed to wait on the ring-master and learn his decision.
"I did not!" cried Jim Tracy. "I'm through with you. We don't need your services."
"Ha!" laughed the man. "Let's see you get up the 'main top' without us."
"Stick around long enough and you'll see it," said Joe Strong.
Joe found a group of the men performers gathered in the dressing tent, discussing the situation. And while the ring-master hastened to gather up such forces as he could muster, Joe made his little talk.
"You're just the very one we want," he said to Tom Jefferson, "the strong man." "You ought to be able to put up the tent alone. Come on now, gentlemen, we must all work together," and rapidly he explained the situation to some who did not understand it.
"Will you help raise the tent?" Joe asked.
"We will!" cried the performers in a chorus.
Soon there was a busy scene in the circus "lots." Not that there is not always a busy time when the show is being made ready, but this was somewhat different. Led by Joe, the performers placed themselves under the direction of some veteran canvasmen who had been working in other departments of the circus.
Jim Tracy, who had in his day been a helper, took the part of the striking foreman of the canvas-workers, and the "main top" soon began to look as it always did. The big center poles were put in place and guyed up. The sections of canvas were laced together in the regular manner, so that they could be taken apart quickly simply by pulling on a rope. Knots tied in erecting a circus tent must be made so they are easily loosed, even in wet weather.
For a while the striking canvasmen stood and laughed at the efforts of those who were taking their places. But they soon ceased to jeer. For the tent was slowly but correctly going up.
"We'll give the show after all!" cried Joe, as he labored at lifting heavy sections of canvas, pulling on ropes or driving stakes.
"I believe we will," agreed the ring-master. "I don't know how to thank you, Joe."
"Oh, pshaw! I didn't do anything! I'm only helping the same as the rest."
"Yes, but it was your idea, and you persuaded the men to pitch in."
And, in a sense, this was true. For Joe was a general favorite with the circus performers, though he had been with them only a comparatively short time. But he had his mother's reputation back of him, as well as his father's, and Bill Watson had spoken many a good word for the young fellow. Circus folk are always loyal to their own kind, and there were many, as Joe learned later, who knew his mother by reputation, and some personally. So they were all glad to help when Joe put the case to them vividly, as he did.
Joe's popularity stood him in good stead, even though there were some who were jealous of the reputation he was making. But jealousies were cast aside on this occasion.
Even the Lascalla Brothers did their share, working side by side with Joe at putting up the tent, as they worked with him on the trapeze. The strong man was a great help, doing twice the work that the others did.
The performers wore their ordinary clothes, laying aside coats and vests as they labored. And the men who knew how circus tents must go up, saw to it that the amateurs did their work well, so there would be no danger of collapse.
While the big tent was being put up the other preparations for the show were proceeded with. Mr. Boyd and Mr. Sampson, who were part owners with Jim Tracy, arranged for a small parade, since it had been advertised. On the back of one of the elephants rode the fat lady, with a banner which explained that because of a strike of the canvasmen the usual street exhibition could not be given. The assurance was made, though, that the show itself would be the same as advertised.
"That will prevent the public from being too sympathetic with the strikers," said Jim Tracy. "The public, as a rule, doesn't care much for a strike that interferes with its pleasure."
At last the big tent was up, and all was in readiness for the afternoon performance, though it would be a little late.
"It won't be much fun taking down the tent after the show to-night," said Joe.
"Perhaps you won't have to," stated the ring-master. "I may be able to hire men to take the strikers' places before then."
"But if you can't, we'll help out," declared the young trapeze performer, though he knew it would be anything but pleasant for himself and the others, after high-tension work before a big audience, to handle heavy canvas and ropes in the dark.
The public seemed to take good-naturedly to the circus, not being over-critical of the lack of the usual big street parade. And men, women and children came in throngs to the afternoon performance.
The circus people fairly outdid themselves to give a good show, and Joe worked up a little novelty in one of his "lone" acts.
He gave an exhibition of rope-climbing, Jim Tracy introducing the act with a few remarks about the value of every one's knowing how to ascend or descend a rope when, thereby, one's life might some time be saved.
"Professor Strong will now entertain you," announced the ring-master, "and tell you something about rope-work."
Joe had hardly bargained for this, but his work as a magician, when he often had the stage to himself and had to address a crowded theatre, stood him in good stead. He was very self-confident, and he illustrated the way a beginner should learn to climb a rope.
"Don't try to go up hand over hand at first," Joe said. "And don't climb away up to the top unless you're sure you know how to come down. You may get so exhausted that you'll slip, and burn your hands severely, for the friction of rapidly sliding down a rope will cause bad burns."
Joe showed how to begin by holding the rope between the soles of the feet, letting them take the weight instead of the hands and arms. He went up and down this way, and then went up by lifting himself by his hands alone, coming down the same way—which is much harder than it looks.
Joe also illustrated the "stirrup hold," which may be used in ascending or descending a rope, to get a rest. The rope is held between the thighs, the hands grasping it lightly, and while a turn of the rope passes under the sole of the left foot and over the toes of the same, the right foot is placed on top, pressing down the rope which passes over the left foot. In this way the rope is held from slipping, and the entire weight of the body can rest on the side of the left leg, which is in a sort of rope loop. Thus the arms are relieved.
Joe showed other holds, and also how to sit on a rope that dangled from the top of the tent. Half way up he held the rope between his thighs, and made a loop, which he threw over his left shoulder. Then, by pressing his chin down on the rope, it was held between chin and shoulder so that it could not slip. Grasping the rope with both hands above his head, Joe was thus suspended in a sitting position, almost as easily as in a chair. The crowd applauded this.
Then Joe went on with his regular trapeze work—doing some back flyaway jumps that thrilled the audience. This trick is done by grasping the trapeze bar firmly at arm's length, swinging backward and downward until the required momentum is reached. When Joe was ready he suddenly let go and turned a backward somersault to the life net.
The trick looked simple, but Joe had practised it many times before getting it perfectly. And he often had bad falls. One tendency he found was to turn over too far before letting go the bar. This was likely to cause his feet to strike the swinging bar, resulting in an ugly tumble.
The evening performance was even better attended than that of the afternoon. Jim Tracy succeeded in hiring a few men to assist with the tents, but he had not enough, and it began to look as though the performers would have to do double work again.
But there occurred one of those incidents with which circus life is replete. The place they were showing in was a large factory town, and at night crowds of men and boys—not the gentlest in the community—attended.
At something or other, a crowd of roughs felt themselves aggrieved, and under the guidance of a "gang-leader" began to make trouble. They threatened to cut the tent ropes in retaliation.
"That won't do," decided Jim Tracy. "I've got to tackle that gang, and I don't like to, for it means a fight. Still I can't have the tent collapse."
He hurriedly gathered a crowd of his own men, armed them with stakes, and charged the gang of roughs that was creating a small riot, to the terror of women and children.
The rowdies finding themselves getting the worst of it, called for help from among the factory workers, who liked nothing better than to "beat-up" a circus crowd. Jim Tracy and his men were being severely handled when a new force took a hand in the mêlée.
"Come on, boys. We can't stand for this!" shouted Jake Bantry, the leader of the striking canvasmen. "They sha'n't bust up the show, even if the boss won't give us more money."
The canvasmen were used to trouble of this kind. Seizing tent pegs, and with cries of "Hey Rube!"—the time-honored signal for a battle of this kind—the striking canvasmen rushed into the fracas.
In a short time the roughs had been dispersed, and there was no more danger of the tents being cut and made to collapse.
"I'm much obliged to you boys," said Jim Tracy to the strikers, when the affray was over. "You helped us out finely."
"It was fun for us," answered Jake Bantry. "And say, Mr. Tracy, we've been talking it over among ourselves, and seeing as how you've always treated us white, we've decided, if you'll take us back, that we'll come—and at the same wages."
"Of course I'll take you back!" exclaimed the owner heartily. "And glad to have you."
"Good! Come on, boys! Strike's broken!" cried Bantry.
So Joe and his fellow-artists did not have to turn to tent work that night.
In looking over the advance booking list one day, Joe saw Bedford marked down.
"Hello!" he cried. "I wonder if that's my town." It was, as he learned by consulting the press agent.
"Are you glad?" asked Helen.
"Well, rather, I guess!" Joe said.
And one morning Joe awakened in his berth, and looked out to see the familiar scenes of the town where he had lived so long.
"Bedford!" exclaimed Joe. "Well, I'm coming back in a very different way from the one I left it," and he chuckled as he thought of the "side-door Pullman," and the pursuing constables.
After breakfast Joe, who did not take part in the parade, set out to see the sights of his "home town," or, rather, he hoped to meet some of his former friends, for there were not many sights to see.
"The place hasn't changed much," Joe reflected as he passed along the familiar streets. "It seems only like yesterday that I went away. Well, Timothy Donnelly has painted his house at last, I see, and they have a new front on the drug store. Otherwise things are about the same. I wonder if I'd better go to call on the deacon. I guess I will—I don't have any hard feelings toward him. Yes, I'll go to see him and——"
Joe's thoughts were interrupted by a voice that exclaimed:
"Say! Look! There goes Joe Strong who used to live here!"
The young circus performer turned and saw Willie Norman, a small boy who lived on the street where Joe formerly dwelt.
"Hello, Willie," called Joe in greeting.
"Hello," was the answer. "Say, is it true you're with the circus? Harry Martin said you were."
"That's right—I am," Joe admitted. He had kept up a fitful correspondence with Harry and some of the other chums, and in one of his letters Joe had spoken of his change of work.
"In a circus!" exclaimed Willie admiringly. "Do they let you feed the elephant?" he asked with awe.
"No, I haven't gotten quite that far," laughed Joe. "I'm only a trapeze performer."
"Say, I'd like to see you act," Willie went on, "but I ain't got a quarter."
"Here's a free ticket," Joe said, giving his little admirer one. In anticipation of meeting some of his friends in Bedford that day, Joe had gotten a number of free admission tickets from the press agent, who was always well supplied with them. Willie's eyes glistened as he took the slip of pasteboard.
"Geewillikens!" he exclaimed. "Say, you're all right, Joe! I'm going to the circus! I wish I could run away and join one."
"Don't you dare try it!" Joe warned him. "You're too small."
He went on, meeting many former acquaintances, who turned to stare at the boy whose story had created such a stir in the town. Joe was looked upon by some as a hero, and by others as a "lost sheep." It is needless to say that Deacon Blackford was one who held the latter opinion.
Joe called on his former foster-father, but did not find him at the house. Mrs. Blackford was in, however, and was greatly surprised to see Joe. She welcomed and kissed him, and there were traces of tears in her eyes.
"Oh, Joe!" she exclaimed. "I am so sorry you left us, but perhaps it was all for the best, for you must live your own life, I suppose. I never really believed you took the money," she added, referring to an incident which was related in the book previous to this.
"I'm glad to hear that," Joe said. "I want to thank you for all your care of me. I didn't like to run away, but it seemed the only thing to do. And, as you say, I think it has turned out for the best. The circus life appeals to me, and I'm getting on in the business."
Mrs. Blackford was really glad to see Joe. She had a real liking for him, in spite of the fact that she had a poor opinion of circus folk and magicians, and she did not believe all the deacon believed of Joe. She could not forget the days when, while he was a little lad, she had often sung him to sleep. But these days were over now.
Joe found the deacon at the feed store. The lad's former foster-father was not very cordial in his greeting, and, in fact, seemed rather embarrassed than otherwise. Perhaps he regretted his accusation against our hero.
"Would you like to see the circus?" Joe inquired, as he was leaving the office. "I have some free tickets and——"
"What! Me go to a circus?" cried the deacon, with upraised hands. "Never! Never! Circuses and theatres are the invention of the Evil One. I am surprised at your asking me!"
Joe did it for a joke, more than for anything else, as he knew the deacon would not take a ticket. Bidding him good-bye, Joe went out to find his former chums.
They, as may well be supposed, were very glad to see him. And that they envied Joe's position goes without saying.
"Well, well! You certainly put one over on us!" exclaimed Charlie Ford admiringly. "How did you do it, Joe?"
"Oh, it just happened, I guess. More luck than anything else."
"When you got Professor Rosello out of the fire you did a good thing," commented Tom Simpson.
"Yes, I guess I did—in more ways than one," admitted Joe.
"And are you really doing trapeze acts?" inquired Henry Blake.
"Come and watch me," was Joe's invitation. "Here is a reserved seat ticket for each of you."
"Whew!" whistled Harry Martin. "Talk about the return of the prodigal! You'll make the folks here open their eyes, Joe. It isn't everybody who runs away from home who comes back as you do."
Joe told his chums some of his experiences, and they went with him out to the circus grounds, where he took them about, as only a privileged character can, showing them how the show was "put together."
"It sure is great!" exclaimed Charlie, ruffling up his red hair.
Joe fairly outdid himself in the performances that day. He went through his best feats, alone and with the Lascalla Brothers, with a snap and a swing that made the veteran performers look well to their own laurels. Joe did some wonderful leaping and turning of somersaults in the air, one difficult backward triple turn evoking a thundering round of applause.
And none applauded any more fervently than little Willie Norman.
"I know him!" the little lad confided to a group about him. "That's Joe Strong. He gave me a ticket to the show for nothing, mind you! I know him all right!"
"Oh, you do not!" chaffed another boy.
"I do so, and I'm going to speak to him after the show!"
This Willie proudly did, thereby refuting the skepticism of his neighbor. For the word soon passed among the town-folk that Joe Strong, who used to live with Deacon Blackford, was with the circus, and after the show he held an informal little reception in the dressing tent which a number of men and boys, and not a few women, attended.
All were curious to see behind the scenes, and Joe showed them some interesting sights. He invited his four chums to have supper with him, and the delight of Harry, Charlie, Henry and Tom may be imagined as they sat in the tent with the other circus folk, listening to the strange jargon of talk, and seeing just how the performers behaved in private.
Altogether Joe's appearance in Bedford made quite a sensation, and he was glad of the chance it afforded him to see his former friends and acquaintances, and also to let them see for themselves that circus people and actors are not all as black as they are painted. Joe was glad he could do this for the sake of his father and mother, as he realized that the wrong views held by Deacon and Mrs. Blackford were shared by many.
Joe bade good-bye to his chums and traveled on with the show, leaving, probably, many rather envious hearts behind. For there is a glamour about a circus and the theatre that blinds the youthful to the hard knocks and trouble that invariably accompany those who perform in public.
Even with Joe's superb health there were times when he would have been glad of a day's rest. But he had it only on Sundays, and whether he felt like it or not he had to perform twice a day. Of course usually he liked it, for he was enthusiastic about his work. But all is not joy and happiness in a circus. As a matter of fact Joe worked harder than most boys, and though it seemed all pleasure, there was much of it that was real labor. New tricks are not learned in an hour, and many a long day Joe and his partners spent in perfecting what afterward looked to be a simple turn.
But, all in all, Joe liked it immensely and he would not have changed for the world—at least just then.
The circus reached the town of Portland, where they expected to do a good business as it was a large manufacturing place. Here Helen found awaiting her a letter from the law firm.
"Oh, Joe!" the girl exclaimed. "I'm going to get my money here—at least that part of my fortune which isn't tied up in bonds and mortgages. We must celebrate! I think I'll give a little dinner at the hotel for you, Bill Watson and some of my friends."
"All right, Helen. Count me in."
The letter stated that a representative of the firm would call upon Helen that day in Portland, and turn over to her the cash due from her grandfather's estate.
That afternoon Helen sent word to Joe that she wanted to see him, and in her dressing room he found a young man, toward whom Joe at once felt an instinctive dislike. The man had shifty eyes, and Joe always distrusted men who could not look him straight in the face.
"This is Mr. Sanford, from the law firm, Joe," said Helen. "He has brought me my money."
"Is he your lawyer?" asked Mr. Sanford, looking toward Joe.
"No, just a friend," Helen answered.
"Is he going to look after your money for you?"
"I think Miss Morton is capable of looking after it herself," Joe put in, a bit sharply.
"Oh, of course. I didn't mean anything. Now if you'll give me your attention, Miss Morton, I'll go over the details with you."
"You needn't wait, Joe, unless you want to," Helen said. "I'd like to have you arrange about the little supper at the hotel, if you will, though."
"Sure I will!" Joe exclaimed.
The circus was to remain over night, and this would give Helen a chance for her feast, which she thought had better take place at the Portland hotel, as it would be more private than the circus tent. Joe went off to arrange for it, leaving Helen with the lawyer's clerk.
Joe's day was already a full one, though he did not tell Helen so. He gladly undertook to arrange the little supper for her at the hotel, and it was only a coincidence that it happened on the night of a day when he had decided to work in a new trick on his trapeze, when he performed alone. It was not exactly a new trick, in the sense that it had never been done before. In fact there is very little new in trapeze work nowadays, but Joe had decided to give a little different turn to an old act. It required some preparation, and he needed to do this during the day. He was going to "put on" the trick at night, and not at the matinee.
But for the time being he gave up his hours to arranging for Helen the supper which would take place after the night performance.
Joe saw the hotel proprietor and arranged for a private room with a supper to be served for twenty-five. Helen had many more friends than that among the circus folk, but she had to limit her hospitality, though she would have liked to have them all at her little celebration. She chose, however, after Joe and Bill Watson and Benny Turton, the women performers who were more intimately associated with her in her acts, and some of the men whose acquaintance she had made since joining the Sampson show.
Joe hurried to the hotel, did what was necessary there, and then went back to the tent. He intended, when the afternoon show was over, to do some practice on his new act.
As he passed into the big tent, which was now deserted, he met Jim Tracy, who, of course, was invited to Helen's supper.
"What's all this I hear about our little lady?" asked the ring-master.
"Well, I guess it's all true," Joe answered. "She has come into a little money."
"Glad to hear it! I'll be with you to-night. Oh, by the way, Joe, I had a letter from the railroad people about our wreck, or, rather, derailment."
"Did you? What did they say?"
"They couldn't find any evidence that the fish plate was put in the switch purposely. It might have dropped there. Of course some tramp might have put it there to get revenge for being put off a train, but it would be hard to prove. And as for getting evidence against Sim Dobley—why, it's out of the question. But you want to keep on looking out for yourself."
"I will," Joe promised.
After thinking the matter over Joe had decided it would be best to speak to the ring-master about the threatening letter, which had been received so close to the time when the derailment occurred. Jim Tracy had at once agreed with Joe that the discharged acrobat might possibly have been mad and rash enough to try to wreck the train, and the railroad detectives had been communicated with. But nothing had come of the investigation, and the accident had been set down as one of the many unexplained happenings that occur on railroads.
A search had been made for Dobley, but he seemed to have disappeared for the time being, and Joe was glad of it.
"Ready for the new stunt?" asked Tracy, as he passed on.
"Yes; I'll pull it off to-night if nothing happens," Joe said.
He was glad there were few people in the big tent when he entered it after the afternoon performance, to put in some hard practice. Joe's own trapeze was in place, but he lowered it to the ground, and went carefully over every inch of the ropes, canvas straps, snaps, and the various fastenings to make sure nothing was wrong. He found everything all right.
It was not exactly that he was suspicious of the Lascalla Brothers, but he was taking no chances.
Joe's act worked well in practice. When he had performed his trick for the last time he saw Benny Turton, the "human fish," coming into the tent to look after his tank, about which the young performer was very particular.
"How do you like that, Ben?" asked Joe, as he finished the new trick.
"First rate. That's a thriller all right, Joe! That'll make 'em sit up and take notice. I'll have to work in something new myself if you keep on piling up the stuff."
"Oh, I guess you could do that, Ben."
The "human fish" shook his head.
"No," he said slowly, "I don't know what's the matter with me lately, Joe, but I don't seem to have ambition for anything. I go through my regular stunts, but that's all I want to do. I don't even stay under water as long as I used to, and Jim Tracy was kicking again to-day. He said I'd have to do better, but I don't see how I can. Of course he was nice about it, as he always is, but I know he's disappointed in me."
"Oh, I guess not, Ben. Maybe you'll do better to-night."
"I hope so. Anyhow you'll have a thriller for them."
"You're coming to Helen's party, aren't you?"
"Oh, sure, Joe. I wouldn't miss that. I'm glad she's got some money," and Ben spoke rather despondently.
Joe made arrangements with his helper to look after the special appliances needed for the new trick, and went to supper. He did not see Helen, and guessed that she was still busy with the law clerk.
"I hope she doesn't trust too much to that chap," mused Joe. "I don't just like his looks."
The big tent was crowded when Joe began his performance that night. He received his usual applause, and then gave the signal that he was about to put on his new act. He was hoisted up to the top trapeze, which was a short one, and to this Joe had fastened a longer one.
He sat upon the bar of this, swinging to and fro, working himself into position until he was resting on the "hocks," as performers call that portion of the leg just above the knee.
Suddenly Joe seemed to fall over backward, and there was a cry of alarm from the crowd. But he remained in position, swinging by his insteps.
In the trapeze world this is known as "drop back to instep hang." Joe had done it most effectively, but that was not all of the trick.
Quickly he grasped the ropes of the lower trapeze. He twined his legs about these, and then, with a thrilling yell, he let himself slide, head down along the ropes, holding only by his intertwined legs and insteps, which he had padded with asbestos to take up the heat of friction.
Down the long ropes he slid until he came to a sudden stop as his outstretched hands grasped the lower bar. There he hung suspended a moment, while the audience sat thrilled, thinking it had been an accidental fall and a most miraculous escape. But Joe had planned it all out in advance, and knew it was safe, especially as the life net was under him.
He suspended himself on the bar a moment, and then made a back somersault, and amid the booming of the drum he dropped into the net and made his bows in response to the applause.
The new feat was appreciated at once, but it was some time before the crowd realized that the fall backward was not accidental.
Joe was congratulated by his fellow performers, though, as might be expected, there was some little jealousy. But Joe was used to that by this time.
It was a merry little party that gathered later in the hotel room for Helen's supper. She sat at the head of the table, with Joe on one side and Bill Watson, the veteran clown, on the other.
"Well, did you make out all right with your lawyer friend?" Joe asked.
"Oh, yes, Joe, I never had so much money at one time in my life before."
"What did you do with it?"
"I kept out enough to pay for this supper, and the rest I put in the circus ticket wagon safe."
"What, all your cash?"
"Oh, I didn't take it all, Joe."
"You didn't take it all?"
"No. Mr. Sanford—he's the law clerk, you know—said I ought not to have so much money with me, so he offered to take care for me all I didn't want to use right away."
"He's going to take care of it for you?" Joe repeated.
"Yes. He says he can invest it for me. But eat your supper, Joe."
Somehow or other Joe Strong did not feel much like eating. He had a sudden and undefinable suspicion of that law clerk.