Joe Strong, the boy wizard: or The mysteries of magic exposed

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Title: Joe Strong, the boy wizard: or The mysteries of magic exposed
Author: Barnum, Vance
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Joe Strong, the boy wizard: or The mysteries of magic exposed" ***
WIZARD ***

JOE STRONG
THE BOY WIZARD
_THE MYSTERIES OF MAGIC EXPOSED_

BY
VANCE BARNUM

Author of “Joe Strong on the Trapeze,” “Joe Strong, the Boy Fish,” “Joe
Strong on the High Wire,” “Joe Strong and His Wings of Steel,” etc.

WHITMAN PUBLISHING CO.
RACINE, WISCONSIN

BOOKS FOR BOYS
BY
VANCE BARNUM

THE JOE STRONG SERIES

JOE STRONG, THE BOY WIZARD
_Or, The Mysteries of Magic Exposed_

JOE STRONG ON THE TRAPEZE
_Or, The Daring Feats of a Young Circus Performer_

JOE STRONG, THE BOY FISH
_Or, Marvelous Doings in a Big Tank_

JOE STRONG ON THE HIGH WIRE
_Or, Motor-Cycle Perils of the Air_

JOE STRONG AND HIS WINGS OF STEEL
_Or, A Young Acrobat in the Clouds_

JOE STRONG—HIS BOX OF MYSTERY
_Or, The Ten Thousand Dollar Prize Trick_

JOE STRONG, THE BOY FIRE EATER
_Or, The Most Dangerous Performance on Record_

Printed by
WESTERN PRINTING & LITHOGRAPHING CO.
Racine, Wisconsin

Printed in U. S. A.

JOE STRONG, THE BOY WIZARD

CHAPTER I
JOE SOLVES A PUZZLE

“How did he do it? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“So would I. It sure was a queer trick all right—and it looked so easy,
too.”

“Well, I’ve tried to guess, but I can’t. The more I think of it the more
I believe that the professor really is a magician, in a certain way.”

“Pooh! It couldn’t be anything like that! It was just a trick, like all
the others he did. But I’d like to know how to do it.”

Four boys sat under the shade of a big willow tree in a grassy meadow on
the bank of a stream. They were earnestly discussing something, the
import of which may be gathered from their talk.

“I tried to do the trick after I got home last night,” confessed Harry
Martin.

“You didn’t do it, did you?” asked Charlie Ford, rumpling up his red
hair. Charlie was not at all ashamed of his red hair. His sister Mazie
called it “auburn,” but Charlie himself stuck to plain “red.”

“Do it? I should say not!” cried Harry. “I didn’t come within a mile of
it, and our folks just laughed at me.”

“And yet how easy Professor Rosello did it,” observed Henry Blake.

“Yes, and he didn’t have any machinery or truck on the stage to do it
with, as he had for his other tricks,” remarked Tom Simpson. “All he had
was a plain slate, same as the little kids use in our school.”

“It must have been a trick slate,” said Harry. “That’s the only way I
can account for the figures getting on it.”

“No, there wasn’t any trick about the slate,” declared Charlie Ford. “I
was sitting right up front, and he passed the slate to me first, to look
at. There wasn’t a sign of a number on it when I had it.”

“And you handed it right over to Mr. Burton to hold, didn’t you?” asked
Tom.

“Yes; and Mr. Burton held it until the figures came out on it—under the
handkerchief, of course. It sure was a good trick.” Charlie shook his
head in wonderment.

“I’d like to know how it was done,” said Henry Blake. “But I don’t
s’pose he’d tell us if we asked him. He’s in town yet. I saw him around
the hotel when I came past a little while ago.”

“It isn’t very likely he’d tell us how he did it,” said Harry. “That’s
the way he makes his living—by doing magical tricks—and it isn’t to be
supposed that he’d give away his secrets. But all the same——”

“Hello, fellows! What’s up now?” asked a new voice. “Talking secrets
that you don’t want me to hear?”

The four boys, gathered under the willow tree, looked up quickly. Looks
of welcome accompanied by smiles greeted the newcomer.

“Hello, Joe!” shouted Charlie Ford.

“Say, you’re looking good!” added Tom.

“I’m feeling good,” was the response. “What’s up?”

“Oh, we’re just talking about the show last night. You were there,
weren’t you?”

“Yes, I saw the great Professor Alonzo Rosello give his world-mystifying
exhibition of black and allied arts,” and Joe smiled as he quoted from
the circulars that had been scattered broadcast over the town of
Bedford, advertising the exhibition given in the Opera House the
previous evening.

“What did you think of him?” asked Henry Blake.

“Why, he was pretty fair in some things,” said Joe, slowly.

“Pretty fair? Why, say! he was great!” cried Tom Simpson. “I’d like to
see you do even the simplest trick that he did!”

“Perhaps I can,” replied Joe, quietly.

His chums looked curiously at him. And, for the moment, we can do no
better than to observe this boy, who had sunk down in an easy position
on the grass. A moment’s study of him now will help greatly in
understanding the nature of a youth destined to have many curious and
thrilling adventures. And he was a lad well adapted by nature for a life
of daring excitement.

Briefly, Joe Strong was a remarkable boy. From the time of his early
infancy he had never known what it was to be ill or ailing. Even the
simplest childish diseases seemed to pass him by as one too strong and
sturdy to try to weaken. He had a superb physical form, and as soon as
he was old enough to take regular exercise he added to his suppleness
and strength in a systematic way.

There was no better runner, jumper, swimmer, diver or all-around athlete
in Bedford than Joe Strong. Added to this he could ride any horse he
ever saw; he could climb to the roof of the church and walk the ridge
pole, with never a qualm of dizziness; he was an excellent shot with a
rifle; and he could juggle with stones, baseball bats, balls—in fact
with almost anything that he could handle. Taking it all in all, Joe was
rather remarkable.

Another point in his favor, and one that was destined to stand him in
good stead in after life, was the fact that he seemed absolutely without
nerves. Rather be it said that his nerves were under such perfect
control that he was their master, not their slave. It took high-strung
but perfectly controlled nerves to do some of the things Joe did.

The secret of his abilities, if secret it was, lay in the fact that his
mother, now dead some years, had been one of the most daring bareback
riders in any circus that ever toured the country. She was billed as
Madame Hortense, though her name was Mrs. Janet Strong. She was an
English woman, and Joe dimly remembered hearing that before her marriage
her name had been Willoughby. Beyond that fact he knew little of his
mother’s early history.

But it was not alone from his mother that Joe inherited certain health,
nerve, daring, ability to ride a horse and to take risks higher up off
this solid earth than most persons care to go. He also was indebted to
his father for many of his talents and abilities.

Professor Morretti—known in private life as Alexander Strong—had been in
his day, one of the best-known and best-drawing (from a theatrical
standpoint) magicians that ever brought a live rabbit out of a silk hat,
or locked himself up in a solid box, only to be found missing when the
box was opened, the professor himself afterward walking coolly down the
aisle of the playhouse.

Thus Joe inherited two totally different sets of talents. And that was
about all he had inherited from his parents. For they had both died when
he was about five years old, the professor first, following a severe
attack of pneumonia contracted when one of his water tricks went wrong,
and he received a drenching on a zero night.

Mrs. Strong did not long survive her husband. Perhaps she lost her
nerve, following news of his sudden death. At that they were traveling
in different shows, Joe being with his mother. Usually, however,
Professor Morretti and Madame Hortense went about together, caring for
little Joe between them.

Only a few months after the professor died, Madame Hortense had a bad
fall from a new horse she was trying, and she received injuries which
resulted in her death in a few weeks.

Joe was left alone in the world, with only an inheritance of a superb
set of muscles, nerves, hawklike eyes and an active brain.

The circus people were kind to him, and did what they could, but a
circus is not the best place in the world for an orphan boy, and the
manager soon realized this.

Consequently he was glad to read an advertisement of a couple who wanted
to adopt a strong, healthy boy of about Joe’s age. Letters were written,
and Mr. Amos Blackford came on with his wife to have a look at Joe.

Mr. Beeze, the circus manager, had artfully neglected to state, in his
early letters, the fact that Joe was the orphan of a bareback rider and
a “Professor of Black Art and Magic”; and when Mr. and Mrs. Blackford
discovered this they were well-nigh horrified. For they were
old-fashioned persons, with very strict ideas about right and wrong, and
to them a woman who rode a horse in a circus was a person not to be
admitted to the best society, and they regarded the dead Professor
Morretti in about the same light as they would an outlaw.

At first they were going back without Joe. But Mrs. Blackford could not
resist the heart-appeal of the attractive little chap, and so he was
taken, and carried to the Blackford home in Bedford by his
foster-parents, who had since brought him up.

They had done well by Joe, as far as their rather narrow minds let them.
They treated Joe harshly at times, without understanding that they did
so. They wanted him to forget that he was ever in a circus, that his
mother ever rode bareback, and that his father juggled Indian clubs and
produced live rabbits from the vest pockets of innocent persons in the
audience.

But Joe could not forget those things. He had been born in a circus, and
the smell of the sawdust, the jungle odor from the animal tent, always
brought back to him, most vividly, his early days.

He had not lived long in Bedford before he became known as a daring
little fellow. Mrs. Blackford nearly fainted when once she saw him
walking the back fence like a tight rope, with a clothes pole as a
balancer in his chubby hands.

And from then on, by gradual stages, Joe advanced to more and more
daring tricks, until one day on a challenge he walked the ridgepole of
the church.

His foster-father whipped him for that—whipped him cruelly—and from that
time Joe came to dislike, with a dislike that never ceased, the man who
had brought him up. From then on his life was more or less miserable.
But he did not give up what was born to him in his blood. In secret he
imitated the acts of circus performers, remembering some of them from
his childhood days, seeing pictures of others on the gaudy fence bills,
and, rarely, getting into a show himself. That was his seventh heaven of
delight.

As the years went on, Joe gained in health, strength, nerve and daring.
Joe was not a paragon—far from it. But he was certainly a remarkable
youth, and perhaps “daring” is the best word to use in describing him.
He seemed never to be afraid to take a chance, but, if the truth were
known, his keen eye and active brain had already figured the chances out
in his favor before he undertook any feat.

And now, on this sunny day, he was sitting under a willow tree with his
companions, discussing a show given the night before by Professor
Rosello.

“Do you mean to tell me, Joe,” asked Tom Simpson, “that you can do _any_
of those tricks the professor did?”

“Some of ’em, yes,” answered Joe. “Of course I can’t do those that need
a whole lot of trick apparatus, a darkened stage, and all that. I could
if I had the stuff. But I think I can do the one you were talking about
as I came up,” and Joe regarded his companions with sparkling eyes.

“You mean the slate trick?” asked Harry.

“Yes. Adding up a sum and making the answer come on the slate. I could
do that now, if I had the slate. That was the only trick thing about it
all.”

“Was that slate a trick one?” asked Charlie, rumpling up his red hair.

“Yes. It was a trick slate, but not very complicated. Now just watch a
moment and I’ll do the trick, as nearly like the professor as is
possible. I guess I’ve got some papers and a pencil.”

From his pocket Joe brought out some white slips and a stub of a pencil.

“Now you fellows just sit in a row a little way apart, and I’ll pretend
this is the stage,” went on Joe, as he stood beside a flat stump near
the willow tree. “Here, Charlie, you put down a number on this slip of
paper. Any number of four figures, say 1,876, or anything you like.”

“All right,” said Charlie, and he wrote a number.

“Now, Harry, you set down a number under Charlie’s,” directed Joe, “and
then it will be Henry’s turn. This is the way the professor did it,
isn’t it?”

“Yes, only he talked more,” replied Tom.

“Well, I could sling the ‘patter,’ as they call it, if I wanted to,”
said Joe. “Only as I’m going to show you how the trick is worked I don’t
need a lot of talk.”

“Are you really going to show us?” asked Harry.

“Sure I am! Now, Harry, if you’ve got your number written pass the paper
to Henry. You set down a number of four figures, Henry, and draw a line
under the sum. Tom, you’re pretty good at addition, aren’t you?”

“Pretty fair, yes.”

“Well, I don’t want any mistake made,” Joe, with a smile, warned them.
“Here you go now. Add up those figures Tom, and get ’em right,” and he
passed a slip of paper to the boy who had not set down any of the
numbers. “Add ’em up, and set the result down in pencil under the line
Henry drew. When you’ve done that I’ll make the answer appear on this
flat piece of stone. Here, you hold it, Charlie,” and picking up a flat
stone from the ground, Joe threw his handkerchief over it and passed it
to Charlie to hold. “Don’t take off the handkerchief until I tell you
to,” he warned the lad.

“Is the sum added, Tom?” asked Joe, a moment later.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Ten thousand, four hundred and sixty-seven.”

“Good!” cried Joe, and, unconsciously perhaps, he imitated the language,
manner and gestures of Professor Rosello. “Now then,” went on the boy
wizard, “you three boys each set down a separate number. None of you
knew what the others wrote, and Tom, who didn’t write any figures,
announces the sum of the other three fellows’ numbers to be ten thousand
four hundred and sixty-seven. Am I right, Tom?”

“That’s right Here’s the paper. I’m sure I added ’em up right.”

“Well, I’ve no doubt but you did, Tom. Now then, I think you’ll agree
that I didn’t know beforehand what numbers you fellows were going to
write, so, of course, I couldn’t tell what they’d add up to. Could I?”

“I don’t see how you could,” admitted Henry, but a little doubtfully.

“Well, now comes the magic part. I’m going, without touching it, to
cause this sum, which Tom announces as ten thousand four hundred and
sixty-seven, to appear on that flat stone Charlie holds under the
handkerchief. I won’t touch the stone, which answers the same purpose as
the professor’s slate. But I’ll take the paper you have, Tom, with the
sum of ten thousand four hundred and sixty-seven on it,” and Joe did so.

“Now to make the trick more simple I’ll just burn this paper with the
sum on, where you can all see it,” Joe went on. He held up the paper in
plain sight and set fire to it with a match.

“I will now pronounce the magic words: _oshkalaloolu presto, smacko!_
The sum has now vanished in smoke, and will appear on the flat stone.
Charlie, lift the handkerchief and hold up the stone so we can all see
it.”

Charlie did so, and there, in black pencil on the gray surface of the
stone, was the answer to the little sum—10,467!

“Whew!” whistled Charlie. “How under the sun did you do it, Joe?”

“And right under our very noses, too!” added Tom, in amazement.

CHAPTER II
A FIREWORKS FIRE

Joe Strong smiled at the puzzled looks on the faces of his chums. They
were eagerly watching him now, as if asking what he would do next.

“No, I can’t do anything more just now,” he said in answer to the
implied request. “I can’t produce a guinea pig from Tom’s ear, nor a
bowl of gold fish from under my shirt; though I might if I were loaded
for those tricks.”

“Loaded?” asked Charlie, curiously.

“Yes, that is what a magician calls it when he comes out on the stage,
with the secret pockets of his dress suit filled with the things he
needs for tricks. He may ‘load’ himself with a bowl of gold fish or a
couple of rabbits.”

“Alive?” asked Henry.

“Sure! Wasn’t the rabbit alive Professor Rosello took out of dad’s hat
last night?” asked Tom.

“How did he do that?” Charlie interrogated “Can you tell us, Joe?”

“Yes, I can, but——”

“Say, I’d rather have him tell us how he did this trick with the
figures,” interrupted Harry. “Go on, Joe.”

“Well, it’s really very simple when you know,” said Joe. “You see the
sum I made appear on the stone wasn’t the sum of the numbers you three
fellows wrote down.”

“It wasn’t?” cried Tom, surprised.

“No,” went on Joe Strong, with a twinkle in his bright eyes. “I let
Harry, Charlie and Henry each set down four figures on a piece of paper.
Then I handed a piece of paper to Tom to add up the sum, only it didn’t
happen to be the same piece that you three fellows used,” and Joe
laughed.

“I just substituted one of my own,” resumed the boy wizard. “I had it in
my pocket all ready, for I thought maybe I’d get a chance to play this
trick to-day. I wadded up in a little ball the paper with the figures
you boys set down, and slipped Tom one of my own. Of course I knew what
my numbers were going to add up to—I had put down the figures myself, so
I ought to know. They were like this:”

4,004
2,821
3,642
—————

Joe showed the little sum, rapidly scribbling it on another piece of
paper.

“Those figures add up to ten thousand four hundred and sixty-seven,” he
resumed, “and of course I knew that before Tom announced the sum. And I
knew I was safe in letting Tom have the list of figures I wrote, for he
had not seen those you fellows had set down. I made my set of figures
look as though a different person had set down each one, and Tom wasn’t
familiar enough with you boys’ way of making figures to detect the
change.

“Then, when I took the piece of paper from him, I burned that and with
it the one that Charlie, Henry and Harry had written their figures on,
so there wouldn’t be any chance of being found out later.”

“But how did you get the sum, ten thousand four hundred and sixty-seven,
on the piece of stone?” asked Charlie. “You didn’t touch that after you
took the paper from Tom, I can vouch for that.”

“No, I didn’t touch it,” affirmed Joe.

“Then how did the figures get on? There must have been some magic about
that.”

“It’s very simple when you know how,” laughed Joe. “When I was talking
here to you fellows, I just put the sum, ten thousand four hundred and
sixty-seven on the flat side of the stone with a pencil. Then I turned
it over and left it lying on the ground until I wanted it. Then it was
easy enough for me to pick it up, cover it with a handkerchief and hand
it to Charlie to hold. The sum was there on it all the while, and when
Tom announced what my three figures added up to, a result that I, of
course, knew beforehand, I simply had Charlie lift the handkerchief,
and—there you were!”

For a moment there was silence among the boys. Then they burst out with:

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!”

“As easy as that!”

“It’s a wonder we didn’t think of that!”

“Two papers—one with our numbers on, and one with his!”

“That’s the whole secret,” explained Joe. “That is, all but the stone.
Of course if I had had a slate to use that would have been a little
different.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” observed Charlie. “That professor last
night passed the slate around for inspection, and there wasn’t any
number written on it.”

“Oh, yes there was,” said Joe with a smile. “Only you didn’t see it. It
was a trick slate. On one side, covered by a piece of black stiff paper,
which looked almost like the slate, was the number written in chalk—a
number that was the sum of three figures previously known to the
professor, and on the piece of paper he gave out to be added up.

“When he took back the slate, after having passed it around for
inspection, he walked up on to the stage and quietly slipped out the
piece of black paper. That left the chalk sum exposed. He could either
do that before he covered the slate with the handkerchief and gave it to
some one to hold, or afterward, as he took it from the person and raised
the handkerchief covering. In his case he did it before, since he let
the person holding the slate lift the handkerchief.”

“Then the number was there all the while!” cried Tom.

“Yes.”

“And if the one who held the slate had lifted the handkerchief it would
have been seen?”

“Yes. And for that reason it’s safer to lay the slate on a table or on
the stage in plain sight, but where no one can inspect it. Then the
magician can ask some one to come up and lift the handkerchief, so it
can’t be said he wrote the number down himself. That’s all there is to
it.”

“Say, it does sound easy now,” commented Charlie. “But how did you ever
figure it out, Joe?”

“Yes, you surely did the trick smoothly!” was Tom’s compliment.

“Oh, I’ve studied it a little,” admitted Joe, modestly. “It needs a
little practice in ‘palming,’ that is in holding two or more things in
your hand without letting the audience suspect you have them; or in
changing one thing for another by sleight-of-hand, as I changed the
papers. You see it’s very easy—like this.”

He picked up a small stone, held it on the back of his left hand, passed
his right quickly over it and closed both fists.

“In which hand is the stone now?” he asked.

“There,” said Tom, indicating the right fist.

“No, there,” said Charlie, quickly, touching the left.

“Neither one, it’s there on Henry’s knee,” announced Joe with a laugh,
and so it was, the same stone, for it was peculiarly marked.

“How did you do it?” cried Henry, in frank amazement.

“Oh, just by making the action of my hands quicker than your eyes,” was
the answer. “I made a couple of false motions, and you followed them
with your eyes instead of watching the stone. That’s how I managed to
substitute the paper with my figures on for the one Tom thought you boys
had prepared. It’s very simple.”

“Yes, to hear you tell it,” came from Henry. “But say, Joe, how did the
professor do that trick with the live rabbit? I was close to him when he
came down off the platform, and I couldn’t see where he had the bunny.
And yet, in plain view, he pulled it out of somebody’s inside coat
pocket. How in the world did he do it?”

“It was easy—for him,” Joe stated. “When he finished the hat and egg
trick he went behind the scenes for a second and slipped the live rabbit
in a secret pocket in his coat.

“After some hocus-pocus work, and a lot of ‘patter,’ or talk made up to
keep you from watching him too sharply, he went close to the man from
whose pocket he was going to produce the rabbit. He held the lapel of
the man’s coat close against his own for a second, and with his other
hand he reached in the secret pocket and got hold of the rabbit’s ears.
Then, when he lifted the bunny up, it looked just as if the animal came
out of the man’s pocket, but, all the while, it came from the
professor’s.”

“Huh!” exclaimed Tom. “It all sounds very easy.”

“It is, and again it isn’t,” explained Joe. “It takes lots of practice,
and one’s got to have his nerve with him all the while, to know how to
act in case anything goes wrong.”

“Then _you_ ought to be a good wizard,” declared Henry, “for you sure
have nerve!”

“That’s right,” added Harry Martin. “But say now, Joe, in that trick
where the professor took——”

Harry did not finish his sentence. His words were cut short by an
explosion which came from a group of buildings located near a railroad
siding about a quarter of a mile away. Following the explosion a cloud
of black smoke billowed up to the sky.

“Look, fellows!” cried Tom. “It’s the fireworks factory!”

“It’s on fire!” added Henry.

“It’s blown up!” yelled Charlie.

“Come on, boys! Come on!” shouted Joe, and he led the way toward the
cloud of smoke, which was now pierced here and there by darting tongues
of fire. As the boys rushed onward there came other and smaller
explosions, like the popping of guns.

CHAPTER III
TO THE RESCUE

For a few moments after the excitement caused by the explosion and fire,
the five boys rushed on together, saying nothing. Their eyes were fixed
on the distant group of burning buildings, which, being of light and
flimsy construction (as is always the case with fireworks factories and
powder mills), were burning rapidly. They occupied quite an extent of
territory, being well separated so that if one blew up or caught fire
there would be less likelihood of all being consumed.

“She sure is a hummer!” cried Harry, as he raced along beside Charlie
Ford.

“That’s right!” joined in the red-haired lad.

“The whole thing’s likely to go up if the wind doesn’t shift,” commented
Henry Blake. “It’s blowing the flames right toward the main building
now.”

“Yes, and they’re all pretty well filled,” said Joe Strong. “This is
their busy season, getting ready for the Fourth, you know. There’ll
likely be a lot more explosions, and a final big one.”

“There goes one now!” cried Tom Simpson.

As he spoke there was a burst of flame and smoke from one of the
buildings that had not before caught fire, and then followed an
explosion louder than any of the previous ones.

“There she goes!” shouted Harry.

“And look at the rockets!” added Joe.

A sheaf of sky rockets, part of a shipment just finished, had become
ignited and now were whizzing up in the air, bursting with loud reports
far above the earth, for they were large-sized pyrotechnics.

“If this were only night it would be a grand sight!” murmured Charlie,
narrowly missing a fall as he stumbled over a stone.

“Too bad they couldn’t wait,” commented Joe, grimly. “Say! I wonder if
any one’s hurt. It came so suddenly that a lot of the workers may be
trapped in there.”

“That’s so,” agreed his chums. They increased their pace. They could now
see others running to the fire—men, boys, and some women and children,
coming from the direction of the town. Others were leaving their work in
fields, gardens, or in houses to view the unusual sight.

There was not a little alarm, too, for many of the men and some girls
and boys of the town worked in the Universal Fireworks Factory,
particularly at this season of the year.

The factory was located close to the freight station of the Bedford and
Point Barrow Railroad, a spur, or short track, running in among the
factory buildings. On the sidings were a number of freight cars, which
carried big red signs, marked: “Dangerous! Explosive! Keep all lights
away!”

But there was plenty of light now, even though the glaring sun took away
the effect that would have prevailed had there been darkness—plenty of
light and fire.

“She sure is a hummer!” cried Tom.

“A hum-dinger,” added Harry. “Listen to that!”

Another explosion occurred, lifting a roof off one of the frail
buildings, and depositing the blazing mass over on the railroad tracks,
and rather dangerously near the passenger depot, which was not far from
the freight station.

“There goes the fire alarm!” cried Harry.

“They’ll be here in no time. It’s a general alarm when anything like a
fireworks factory goes up,” said Joe. “There they come,” he added, as he
looked back toward the town, and pointed to an automobile fire-fighting
apparatus coming along the road. The auto-engine was a new purchase for
Bedford. Besides that, there was an old steamer, drawn by hand whenever
horses could not be requisitioned in a hurry.

The five boys had to cross the small stream, known locally as Bedford
Creek, in order to reach the scene of the fire. As they rushed along
across the fields toward the water, all but Joe bore off to the left. He
kept straight on.

“Where you going?” asked Harry.

“To the fire, of course,” was the answer.

“The bridge is over this way,” stated Tom, indicating a white structure
that crossed the stream some distance to the left of where the boys then
were.

“Bridge!” cried Joe. “Do you think I’d waste time crossing a bridge when
there’s a fire like this straight ahead of me?”

“How are you going to get across the creek?” Harry queried.

“Wade or swim, of course. It’s a hot day!”

And while Tom, Harry and the others ran on toward the bridge, Joe
Strong, coming to the edge of the creek, which at this point was deeper
and wider than at any other, waded out without a moment’s hesitation.

For a moment his chums watched him, fascinated. Then they shook their
heads, and kept on toward the bridge.

“He sure has got nerve!” asserted Henry.

“Yes, Joe’s there with it every time,” added Tom. “I wish I dared do
that. But if I got wet with all my clothes on, I’d be in for a good
scolding when I got home.”

“Joe may be, too—or worse,” said Charlie. “I hear that he and Deacon
Blackford don’t get along any too well of late. He’s given Joe several
touches of the whip and strap, and Joe’s not a fellow to stand much of
that sort of treatment.”

“I wouldn’t blame him for not standing it,” commented Henry. “Deacon
Blackford may mean all right, but we all know he’s totally ashamed to
have it known what Joe’s father and mother were. As if it could be a
disgrace to have had a mother who was a dandy circus rider, and a father
who was a top-notcher when it came to magic. I’d be proud of it if my
folks were that sort.”

“So would I,” added Harry.

“That’s where Joe gets his nerve,” remarked Tom. “Nerve to do just what
he did now—swim the creek.”

“Yes, and that’s where he gets his liking for magic tricks and for his
circus stunts,” added Charlie. “He sure is a great boy, and strong. Why,
say! you ought to have seen him on the trapeze I put up in our barn the
other day. He did one giant swing and then he slid down a rope in a way
that——”

“Look, there goes another building!” interrupted Henry, and the boys,
racing for the bridge, forgot, for the time, to discuss Joe and his
doings, in watching the progress of the fire, to which they were much
nearer now. They could hear the crackle of the flames and the popping of
small pieces of fireworks.

Charlie turned back to look at Joe. The young wizard, for such he later
became, had waded out until he found himself getting beyond his depth,
then he plunged into the water, fully clothed as he was, and began to
swim.

Joe was a good swimmer, and he had on a light summer suit and tennis
shoes, so he was not as hampered as otherwise he might have been. But
swimming in a full suit was nothing for Joe. He had done it before in a
camping contest, and he had plunged in once, in midwinter, in a heavy
suit, to rescue a little girl from the icy stream.

Joe was a wonderful swimmer, though he could not yet do any fancy
tricks. He was just doing the plain Australian crawl stroke, which puts
one through the water in wonderfully good time. On and on he swam,
gaining the other side, and was very close to the fire before his
companions had reached the bridge. That was where Joe’s nerve and daring
stood him in good stead.

In the beginning he had no particular object in getting to the fireworks
fire in such a hurry. It was just curiosity on his part, as it was on
the part of his companions. Then another thought came to Joe.

As he climbed up the bank on the other side, water dripping from every
part of him, the youth thought:

“I wouldn’t be surprised but what somebody got hurt in this fire. It
came so suddenly they can’t all have escaped. It isn’t going to be any
easy job to put it out, either. They’ll need all the help they can get
together. There go some of the railroad men to give a hand.”

Joe was out on level ground now, near the railroad tracks, and he
utilized them as the shortest way to the fire. He looked back to see his
chums who had crossed the bridge and were now laboriously racing onward.
Their long run had tired them, whereas the swim Joe had taken had
refreshed him, as the day was warm.

The shrill sound of the fire apparatus siren could now be heard,
mingling with the whistle of the steamer, for the engineer, seeing the
smoke and blaze from afar, and knowing the need, had started a fire
under the boiler, ready for quick work when he should have reached the
scene of the conflagration.

Joe joined the running, panting throng of men and boys that now came
swarming from all directions to the fire. The crew of a freight train,
drawn up at the Bedford station, had come over to do what they could,
and the fire-fighting force of the factory itself was busy. They had a
small steamer on the premises, and lines of hose were connected to the
steam pump in the boiler room. Water was soon being poured on the blaze,
and when the auto-apparatus and the old-fashioned steamer arrived, they,
too, were put into service.

By this time Joe’s chums had joined him.

“You beat us to it,” panted Charlie.

“Sure I did!” exclaimed Joe. “Why didn’t you fellows take a chance in
the creek?”

“We didn’t want to spoil our clothes,” said Charlie.

“That’s right. It didn’t improve mine any,” admitted the young wizard,
as he looked down at his sodden garments. “I expect dad will ask me to
step out to the woodhouse when I get home,” Joe said grimly. He called
Mr. Blackford “dad,” and, as a matter of fact, up to the time he was
eight years old Joe had not appreciated the fact that “the deacon,” as
he was often called, was only his foster-parent. Joe had but a hazy idea
of his real father and mother, and the change at his early age failed to
impress him. Later he heard the real story, however.

“Yes, I guess I’ll get a talking to, anyhow,” he went on. “But I
couldn’t wait to come over the bridge. Say, she’s going some! isn’t
she?”

“That’s what!” commented Tom. “Look, there goes the big building!”

The main structure, which up to now had suffered neither from explosion
nor from fire, was seen to be smoking on one side. Hoarse orders came
from the fire chief to play streams on that in an effort to save it, and
the fire-fighters drew closer.

“Anybody hurt, did you hear?” asked Charlie of Joe.

“No, but some had narrow escapes. A few of the girls had to jump, but it
wasn’t far, for most of the buildings are only two stories high.”

This was true of all, in fact, save the main structure, where most of
the fireworks were stored. That was four stories high, and constructed
partly of brick. It was an old mill turned into a fireworks factory, the
other structures being built around it.

“If that main building catches—good-night! I’m going to leave this
spot!” said Henry.

“Yes, it will be healthier a bit farther on,” agreed Tom.

“Oh, look!” suddenly cried Harry. “There’s a man on the top floor of the
store-house! Look!”

He pointed. The others followed the direction of his outstretched
finger. They saw a small door open near the roof of the main building.
It was a door with a projecting beam above it—a beam such as in barns
and mills is used for hoisting bags of grain or bales of hay. And, for
the moment, a man stood outlined in this small, open door.

Then, suddenly, the man was seen to crumple up and fall in a heap on the
very edge of the opening. So close to the edge did he fall that there
came a gasp of horror from the throng, for it looked for an instant as
if he would topple out and fall to the ground below.

“Why—why, that’s the professor—Professor Rosello, who did the magic
tricks last night!” cried Harry.

“So it is!” agreed Tom. They had recognized him in that brief instant.
What he was doing on the top floor of the main building of the fireworks
factory could only be guessed then.

“If he hadn’t fainted, or been overcome by smoke or flames, or whatever
happened to him,” said Henry, “he might have slid down the rope and been
saved. As it is now, he’s in danger.”

A rope dangled from the beam above the door to the ground below. It ran
through a pulley, and was evidently used to hoist and lower materials
into and out of the factory.

Joe Strong, with an exclamation, suddenly darted forward toward the
building, which, in spite of the streams of water poured against it, was
now on fire.

“What are you going to do?” cried Harry, reaching out his hand to hold
back his chum.

“Get that man—the professor!” answered Joe.

“But you—you can’t do it!” protested Henry.

“Can’t I? You just watch me!” cried Joe, as he broke into a run. He was
headed straight for the dangling rope that hung from the beam. It was
right in front of the open door, where the motionless form of the
magician lay.

Joe Strong was going to the rescue.

CHAPTER IV
JOE’S FEAT

There was so much going on—firemen and eager volunteers working at the
hose and apparatus, railroad men and factory employees endeavoring to
get out of the danger zone a car loaded with explosives, others removing
from the factory and store-houses some of the powder, still others
rushing here and there, uselessly shouting—there was so much of this
sort of thing going on that, for a moment, no one noticed Joe Strong
except his four chums.

But the lad had no sooner reached the foot of the dangling rope than
others saw him, among them some firemen.

“Come back from there!” they shouted.

“Not just yet!” coolly answered Joe.

“What are you going to do?” a railroad man inquired.

“Get him!” replied Joe, briefly, as he pointed to the huddled figure
lying in the low doorway up above.

“You can’t do it! That place is all on fire inside. It may go up any
minute.”

“Well, I figure that I’ve got a minute to spare, and a minute is about
all I want,” answered Joe calmly.

By this time he was going up the rope hand over hand, not an easy feat,
but Joe seemed to make nothing of it. Now, if ever, he blessed the time
he had spent in acrobatic work, in emulating the tricks of circus
performers, his own mother included. Now, if ever, he was glad of his
strong and supple muscles, his cool head and eyes that never faltered.

Up and up he went, hand over hand, climbing the rope like a veritable
monkey, and with a skill that would have caused applause to break forth
at any other than this critical time. As it was, there was a murmur of
admiration for Joe’s coolness and daring. For it was a daring feat.

All this while the fighting of the fire was going on at other parts of
the plant. There had been no loud explosions for some time, though small
ones were constantly to be heard. And inside the factory’s flimsy
buildings, most of which were in flames, could be heard the hissing and
spluttering of various forms of pyrotechnics.

Up and up went Joe until in a very short time he swung in through the
small door, and stood beside the prostrate man, whom some of the boys
had recognized as Peter Crabb, otherwise known as Professor Rosello, the
magician.

“He’s there!” cried Charlie Ford.

“Yes, Joe’ll get him down if there’s any way to do it!” chimed in Henry
Blake.

“And if there isn’t a way, Joe will make one!” declared Tom Simpson.

Joe’s chums and others in the crowd could see the young wizard now
bending over the huddled form of the professor. They saw Joe hauling up
the rope to get at the free end which was on the ground.

Just then came a burst of flames and smoke from a window in the second
story, directly past which Joe had climbed a moment before, and past
which he must lower the unconscious form of the magician; for that,
evidently, was his intention. Could it be done?

“He’ll never do it!” some one said.

“They’re both goners!” was the general comment.

“The place is all on fire inside. No chance to save it,” a fireman
remarked. “We’d all better get back, for she’ll explode soon.”

“Come on down, Joe!” a voice cried. “Save yourself!”

Joe answered something. What it was no one could hear above the crackle
of the flames and the puffing of the engines.

“Joe won’t come down without him,” said Henry Blake in a low voice.

“That’s what he won’t,” agreed Harry Martin.

But how was Joe to lower the man past that outburst of flame? Even a
momentary passage through it would likely cause death if the man inhaled
the fire. At best, he would be terribly burned.

But Joe Strong knew what he was doing. As the crowd watched, they saw
him take off his soaking wet coat and trousers, wet from his swim across
the creek. In another instant Joe had wrapped and twisted the sodden
garments around the form of the magician, covering his head and face.

It was then the work of but an instant for Joe to fasten the rope about
Professor Rosello. Joe was an expert in tying knots, and soon he swung
the form, encased in wet garments, free of the window ledge. Down he
lowered the man, swiftly, right through the outburst of flame. The rope
was charred but not burned through.

“I knew Joe’d think of a way!” shouted Tom.

“But how’s he going to get down himself?” gasped Harry. “He can never do
it!”

This was a puzzling question for his chum. Joe seemed doomed. But the
lad himself never seemed to give this a thought. He stood in the open,
upper doorway, attired in only his wet undergarments.

The flames, spurting out from the window below him, seemed fiercer than
ever. The rope would never stand another trip past them. And now a
series of small explosions in the building on the upper floor of which
Joe stood indicated that that building soon would go in a burst of fire
and smoke.

But Joe knew there was a life net carried on the auto fire engine, and
he depended on this.

The chief of the Bedford department had not lost his head, and Joe had
no sooner lowered the form of the magician to the ground when the quick
mind of the chief was directed to saving the boy.

“Bring up that life net!” he shouted through his trumpet. It had been
made ready some time before, but had not been used, since most of the
employees had been rescued from the first floors.

“Stand here with it!” directed the chief, indicating a spot out in front
of, and directly in line with, the open doorway in which Joe still
stood. Now the smoke was swirling more thickly about the lad, and back
of him could be seen dancing tongues of fire.

“Can you jump it, Joe?” called the chief through his trumpet

“All right! Hold her steady! I’m coming!” cried Joe, shrilly, above the
crackle of the flames.

A fire department life net consists of a big iron ring, which can be
folded in half upon itself. Around the circumference of the ring is
woven a strong rope net, sagging toward the middle. Firemen stand in a
circle about the iron ring, grasping it with their hands, and holding it
as high as possible to allow for the recoiling impact of the falling
body.

“Are you ready down there?” cried Joe.

“All ready!” answered the chief. “Brace yourselves now, men!”

Joe poised for an instant on the edge of the doorway. It was a
sixty-foot jump, but he hesitated only an instant. With his hands to his
sides, standing as straight as an arrow, his superb form beautifully
outlined, clad as he was only in his underclothes, Joe jumped.

Straight as a plummet he came down, feet first, into the life net. It
sagged with his weight, and the men holding it were jerked forward, but
there were so many of them that the elasticity of the apparatus was
preserved, and Joe bounced up like a rubber ball.

Another bounce and he turned a somersault, landing on the turf at one
side.

A cheer went up from the rescuers. Joe had been saved, and he had saved
the life of the magician in a thrilling manner. Another cheer rang out.
But there was no time for more. There was still the fire to fight.

Joe’s chums gathered about him, eager to clasp his hand, to clap him on
the back, to utter words of praise. But he had but one thought—or,
rather, two.

“Is the professor all right?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes,” some one answered. “He’d only fainted. He’s all right now, and
not burned a bit, thanks to your wet clothes.”

“Where are my clothes?” demanded Joe. “This isn’t exactly a bathing
beach.”

“You can’t wear your things,” a fireman informed our hero. “They’re
badly scorched. Here, wrap yourself in this blanket until you can get
home,” and he extended one of the horse-coverings. Joe accepted it
gratefully.

“Better get back from here,” another fireman advised. “This place is
going, and it’s full of powder.”

The crowd, as well as Joe and his chums, took the hint.

But the main factory did not go up. The fire-fighters rallied in force
around it, seeing that the other buildings were doomed, and the bigger
part of the plant was saved. Luckily enough, too, as had it exploded the
force would have been felt a long distance. The light and flimsy
buildings burned quickly into ashes, and the explosions of fireworks
grew less frequent. The material in the main building was spoiled by
water, but that was better than having the fire reach it.

Little remained to do now, but to guard against stray sparks in the
building that had been saved at such risk. The crowd began to disperse.

“Where’s the professor?” asked Joe, moving about in his blanket like
some pale-faced Indian.

“They took him to the hotel,” said Tom. “Say, Joe, don’t you want to
stop at our house and get some of my clothes? It’s nearer than going to
yours.”

“Good idea. Thanks. I guess I will. I don’t feel exactly like showing up
at home in this rig.”

Some one who knew Joe offered to drive him in his automobile to the
Simpson house. Tom, of course, went with his friend, and Joe was soon
clothed in ordinary garments, having first taken a bath at Tom’s house,
for the smoke had made him black and grimy.

CHAPTER V
JOE’S AMBITION

“Where are you going now, Joe?” asked Tom, as his chum, after having
thanked Mrs. Simpson for her hospitality, stood, ready to leave the
house. “Going home?”

“Not right away,” Joe answered. “I had an idea I’d like to call on the
professor to see if he was all right. It isn’t every day I help rescue a
man that way, you know.”

“Help rescue him!” exclaimed Tom, with an accent on the first word.
“Why, you did it all, Joe! And, say, I never saw anything done slicker.
Using your wet clothes was just the thing.”

“It was the _only_ thing,” said Joe. “I knew the fire wouldn’t get
through my soaking wet coat and trousers in the little while he was
exposed to the flames. But say, Tom, are my clothes too badly burned to
wear?”

“I’m afraid so, Joe. I had a look at them, and they seem to be ruined.”

“Too bad!” and Joe sighed. Mr. Amos Blackford had the reputation in town
of being rather close, and Joe realized this better than any one else.

“The professor ought to get you a new suit,” Tom asserted, “since you
ruined yours saving him.”

“Oh, that wasn’t the reason I wanted to see him,” hastily interposed the
young wizard. “And if you go with me, Tom, don’t you dare mention my
burned clothes.”

Joe looked so stern as he said this, and Tom so well knew the firmness
of his chum, that he readily promised to do as Joe wished.

“I think I’ll just give him a call at the hotel,” Joe went on. “There’s
time enough for me to go home—and take what’s coming to me—later,” he
added grimly. “I’ve got another suit, Tom, my best one. I can put that
on and give you back yours.”

“Oh, I’m not worrying about that, Joe. But come on, we’ll go to the
hotel. I wonder what the professor was doing up on the top floor of that
fireworks factory, anyhow.”

“That’s one of the things that’s been puzzling me, Tom. And I don’t mind
admitting that it is one of the reasons why I’d like to meet that
prestidigitator.”

“Come along then,” went on Tom. “I’m with you. You may learn some more
of his tricks, Joe.”

“Oh, I know quite a few already.”

“You do? You never told us fellows.”

“Oh, well, I sort of had to keep them under cover. You know my
foster-parents aren’t any too proud of what my father and mother did for
a living.”

“So I’ve heard, Joe.”

“But I’m proud of them!” Joe exclaimed, with flashing eyes. “I wish I
could be such a rider as I’ve heard my mother was, and as good a
magician as my father. But, as I said, I’ve had to sort of keep my
ambitions under cover.

“I have done a little practicing on the side, though, and I have some
books on magic I’m studying. There’s more to it than most persons
suppose. No, I don’t want to get to the bottom of any of Professor
Rosello’s tricks. I fancy I know most of them anyhow. But I would like
to know what he was doing in that factory, especially up where he was
when the fire broke out.”

“Maybe he’ll tell us,” said Tom.

As the two young men went through the town the signs of excitement about
the fire were still pretty much in evidence. On all street corners
little groups were talking about it. Several persons had been overcome
with smoke, and one or two employees were slightly burned, one man
seriously, it was feared.

As Joe walked along he and Tom heard more than once a murmur of voices,
which could be heard commenting on Joe’s brave act.

“There he goes now!” some one exclaimed. “The nerviest fellow in seven
counties! I don’t believe there’s a thing Joe Strong doesn’t dare do!”

“You’re getting famous, Joe,” commented his chum.

Joe smiled, but said nothing.

They soon found themselves at the one hotel of Bedford, and, after
stating their errand, a bell-boy came back with the information that
Professor Rosello would see them in his room.

“He’s a little knocked out,” the clerk informed Joe. “Nothing serious,
though. He’ll be glad to see you.”

And the professor was. He looked from Joe to Tom as the two lads entered
his room.

“To whom am I indebted so greatly for the saving of my life?” asked
Professor Rosello, in a rather formal and old-fashioned manner, which
well became him.

“He did it!” said Tom, quickly, indicating Joe.

“Then permit me, my dear young sir, to give you my most heartfelt and
sincere thanks.” He shook hands gravely with Joe, and resumed: “I am
well aware that mere words are futile at a time like this, and so I will
refrain from uttering many of them. But, none the less, I do thank you.
I did not realize my danger until after I had been rescued. Then I was
told it was you who had done it. Even yet I hardly realize what I went
through and my escape from a great danger. I dare say it will come to me
as a shock, later.”

“I hope you’re feeling better,” said Joe, who was anxious to get the
“thanking business,” as he called it, over with.

“Yes, I am almost myself again, thank you,” was the reply. “I did
swallow a little smoke, but not much. I really had no business to go
where I did. You see it was this way.”

Tom looked at Joe, as much as to say:

“Now you’ll get your explanation all right.”

“I am, as perhaps you know, a sleight-of-hand performer; a magician, as
we are sometimes called. I gave an exhibition in your town last night.”

“I was there, and liked it first rate!” broke in Tom. “And Joe here—he
showed us——”

Tom stopped suddenly, for Joe administered an unseen, but none the less
swift, warning kick, under cover of a table.

“I am glad you liked my little entertainment,” the professor went on,
not appearing to notice the little side-play between Joe and his chum,
if, indeed, he saw it. “As I was saying, I am a modern magician. As you
young gentlemen probably know, we are always on the lookout for new
tricks, new effects, illusions and so on. Perhaps I need not tell you
that there is really no so-called Black Art—nothing really supernatural
in my work, or in that of my fellow artists. We can not overcome nature,
we merely adapt her to our needs. The old truth of the hand being
quicker than the eye still holds good. In fact it is very easy to
deceive the eye, as you doubtless noticed at my little entertainment.
You see——”

The professor pulled a red handkerchief from his pocket, flourished it
in the air, stuffed it into his clenched fist. Pulled out one end to
disclose a blue flag. Then, with a rapid motion, he stuffed it back into
his clenched fist again, to bring it out pure white, and a moment later,
rolling it up into a ball, he smoothed it out to disclose a miniature
United States flag.

This he held out to Tom, who, when he took it, found that he was
grasping a lemon.

“Why—what—how did you——?” he stammered.

“Merely demonstrating that the hand is quicker than the eye,” said the
professor, smiling.

“Joe can do——” began Tom, when he was again stopped by a swift kick
under the table.

“As I said,” resumed the magician, with a smile, “I am always on the
lookout for new effects. This morning, when I was waiting for my train
at the station to take me and my effects on to the next town, where I
show night after to-morrow, I noticed the fireworks factory. It occurred
to me that I might use some simple little piece of fireworks in
demonstrating one of my tricks, so, as I had time enough, I went over to
the office.

“They had just what I wanted, and the manager took me up to the store
room to show me different styles of it. While we were on the second
floor there was an explosion in one of the distant buildings. The
manager rushed away at once, leaving me there in the factory.

“I realized that the fire was somewhere near me, but I had no idea that
it might spread to the building in which I then was. Left to myself, I
strolled about, looking at the different pieces of fireworks. I was very
much interested. I even went up to the top story, all alone. Those in
the factory must have rushed out at the first alarm.

“I realized that there was a fire, but I fairly lost myself in working
out the details of a new illusion that came to me while in the factory.
I sat down amid the store of pyrotechnics and became involved in
thought. Then, before I knew it, I was trapped. I rushed to the opening
and must have fainted. The rest you young gentlemen know better than I.”

Joe had received the information he wanted. The explanation was a
perfectly natural one. Perhaps, though, no one but a man like Professor
Rosello would have sat down in a fireworks factory, with a blaze near
him, to work out the details of a trick. But, as he said, he fairly lost
himself in a maze of thought, and when he did realize his danger it was
almost too late.

“And now, once more, permit me to thank you for saving my life. I can
offer you no adequate reward, nor, I imagine, do you want one, Joe
Strong.”

Joe shook his head negatively.

“But if ever you are in need of a friend—that is such a friend, with
such limited talents as I possess—don’t fail to call on Peter Crabb,
otherwise known as Professor Rosello,” he added earnestly. “I am going
to travel on to-night,” he resumed. “I shall feel well enough then. I
can not get the fireworks I desired, but they will do later.

“As I said, if ever you want a friend, don’t forget me. I may not be
able to do much for you, but such as I can do, I will do gladly. I know
many men and women in such lines of public life as I, myself, follow,
and it may be I can help you to gratify some ambition.”

“I wonder if you could?” asked Joe, boldly. “I have only one
ambition—that is at present—and that is, to be what you are.”

“A magician?” cried Professor Rosello, somewhat surprised.

“Yes,” answered Joe.

The professor was silent a moment.

“Young man,” he said, “it is not an easy life. There are many hardships,
and not every one can stand them, nor is every one fitted to attempt to
amuse the public as I do. I say that in all modesty, but there is a
certain manual dexterity required, a certain quickness of motion—of the
eye—a certain amount of nerve——”

“Joe’s got that!” cried Tom, moving away to escape an expected kick.
“And he can do some tricks, too. You ought to see him do the number
trick you worked last night!”

The professor looked strangely at Joe.

“You are, perhaps, an amateur?” he asked, slowly.

“Sort of,” admitted Joe, diffidently.

“Then perhaps you can master the art, after many years’ practice. If you
like, I will test you. Let me see——”

“My father was Professor Morretti,” said Joe in a low voice.

The magician started.

“Professor Morretti!” he murmured. “Are you his son?”

“Yes,” said Joe, simply.

Professor Rosello bowed as to an equal.

“My dear young man,” he said, “I am greatly interested in you—more so
than before. If you are the true son of Professor Morretti, and if you
have even a small part of his talents, I can predict for you a brilliant
future. He was one of the greatest of us. I never met him, but it was
something even to know him by reputation. I am indeed glad to meet his
son—proud to have been saved by him.

“And to think I talked to you of years of preparation—that I had an idea
of showing you a few simple tricks, just to discourage you! For I did
not want you to learn by too bitter experience the sorrow of failure.
And you are Professor Morretti’s son! I am proud to know you!”

CHAPTER VI
A FAMILY JAR

The meeting between Joe Strong and the magician had quite a different
result from the one our young wizard had expected. He had not been sure
that his father would be known, even by reputation, to Professor
Rosello, and it was a source of pride and joy to Joe to see the esteem
in which his parent was held.

“There was no more brilliant performer in the business,” said the
magician. “His box trick is unrivalled to-day, and his mystery of the
ringing bells, while it is done by several, including myself, lacks the
brilliancy and smoothness which he gave it. I wish I had known him, but,
failing in that, I am glad to know his son.”

“And I am glad to know you,” replied Joe. “It isn’t often I meet any one
who appreciates the profession of a magician, or of a circus rider. My
mother was that, you know.”

“So I have heard. She, too, was famous in her day. So you are an orphan.
May I inquire with whom you live?”

Joe gave the details of his bringing up by his foster-parents. Professor
Rosello was much interested, and asked many questions.

“Are you serious in wishing to adopt the profession, or calling, of a
prestidigitator?” he asked.

“I certainly am!” answered Joe. “But I know Mr. and Mrs. Blackford will
object to it. They are even ashamed to have folks know what my father
and mother were.”

“A foolish pride!” murmured the professor. “There are as fine and noble
men and women in the circus, or in any theatrical line, as in any other
calling of life. It is hard that such a prejudice exists against them. I
have met it myself.

“But, Joe—I am going to call you that, for I feel as if I had known you
a long time. Joe, you realize, perhaps, that you will have to begin at
the bottom of the ladder in this?”

“Yes,” Joe answered the question eagerly. “Oh, I don’t suppose I could
start in now. I’ve got to work up to it gradually. It’s just my
ambition, that’s all.”

“Well, I hope you succeed,” said the magician. “I wish I could help you.
Perhaps I can, later. I will give you my card, with the names of the
places where I shall be playing for the next month or two. If you find
that you can begin this life, let me know, and I may find an opening for
you with some of my friends.”

“Oh, I don’t imagine I can,” and Joe spoke hopelessly.

“Let me see your hands,” said the professor suddenly.

Joe held them out. Firm, muscular hands they were, well formed, and
giving an idea of great strength.

“Good!” murmured the magician. “Here, let me see you palm this,” and
from an unseen portion of his clothing he produced a billiard ball.

Joe, nothing abashed, at once proceeded to manipulate the ball. He first
exhibited it in one hand, and then in the other. Finally, showing both
hands empty, he reached over and seemingly took the ball from off Tom’s
head!

“Bravo! Very good! Much better than I expected!” cried the professor.
“You have a natural ability to palm articles. I presume you must have
practiced, also.”

“A little,” admitted Joe. He did not state that many and many a night,
in his room, he had gone through this and other necessary fundamentals
in the magical art, getting ready for the time when he hoped his
ambition should be realized. Now he was reaping the fruits of his secret
practice.

“Yes, you are a better palmer than many who are on the stage to-day,”
said the professor. “It would not be fair to you, though, to say that
you have not yet something to learn. But I can see you have great
promise. I sincerely hope I can assist you. I will now write out my
different addresses for you. It may be that, some day, I can help you.”

The professor sat down at a table, and began making out a list of towns
where he would play in rotation.

Just here it may be stated for the benefit of readers unacquainted with
the prestidigitator’s art, that “palming,” as it is known in the
profession, is the act of holding an egg, billiard ball, lemon, coin, or
some similar object, in the palm of the hand, by a slight contraction of
the ball of the thumb, in such a manner that the hand, when the back of
it is held out in front of an audience, appears perfectly empty. Passing
of articles from one hand to another, involves palming, as does causing
to “disappear” certain articles apparently taken from a person’s hat,
clothes and so on.

Palming is the basis of many tricks. The explanation of these tricks is
very simple, involving in most cases the exercise of but three
principles—palming, the use of special and secret apparatus, and the old
trick of deceiving the eye by making certain motions with the hands.

The professor talked for some little time longer with Joe and Tom, and
did some tricks there, in the hotel room, with simple articles, that
even Joe admitted afterward he could not explain.

“But I’ll soon learn how they’re done,” he said to Tom, as they came
away. “I’m not going to be stumped by them!”

“Then your going to keep at this ambition of yours, Joe?”

“I certainly am! I guess it’s in my blood, Tom.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Professor Rosello had again expressed his profound gratitude to Joe for
saving his life. The magician had almost fully recovered from the shock
and said he would go on that night to the next town where he would,
later, give a performance. Joe left with a list of the succeeding places
where Professor Rosello would “play.”

“And now I guess I’d better get home,” said Joe to Tom. “The folks may
be worried about me, after hearing about the fire. I’ll send your suit
back as soon as I can.”

“No hurry about that, Joe.”

On the way to the residence of his foster-parents Joe heard more talk of
the fire, and his own brave act was often mentioned. How the fire
started was not known, but the conjecture was that spontaneous
combustion was the cause. Fires in factories where Fourth of July
articles are made are not rare occurrences. As a matter of fact, they
are rather to be expected.

In this case, the saving of the main building prevented what might have
been a calamity with great loss of life. Most of the fire apparatus was
returning as Joe turned down the street where he made his home with Mr.
and Mrs. Blackford.

“I wonder if he’ll raise a row about my clothes,” thought Joe. To
himself he always thought of Mr. Blackford as “he” and Mrs. Blackford as
“she,” though in conversation with others Joe called them “dad” and
“mother.”

As has been mentioned before, Mr. and Mrs. Blackford did not intend to
be unkind. They had lived hard and strict lives when they were young,
and they did not see why others should not tread the same path. In
consequence they curtailed Joe’s pleasures, they frowned at every
mention of his parents, and they were, at times, actually harsh and
cruel to him. They excused themselves on the plea that it was “for his
good.” But, undoubtedly, they were very short-sighted.

Joe would have been much better off had he had kinder treatment and
greater liberty. In fact, at times, he was treated as a child, though he
was, at the opening of this story, nearly eighteen years old.

“Yes, I reckon I’m in for a wigging,” mused Joe, as he approached the
house. “Might as well get it over with.”

He vaulted over the gate, landing easily, though it was not a low
barrier by any means.

“Oh, Joe! Don’t do that!” cried Mrs. Blackford. She had seen him from
the window. “You might spoil your shoes!”

“Oh, I guess not,” he answered easily.

“And what has happened to you?” she went on. “That isn’t your suit!
Where have you been? Did you hear about the fire?”

“Yes. I was there. It was quite a blaze.”

“And what about your suit?” went on the elderly woman. “This isn’t
yours.”

“I know it.”

“Whose is it?”

“Tom Simpson’s. He lent it to me.”

“But where’s your own?”

“Burned.”

“Burned?” Mrs. Blackford’s voice was shrill.

“Yes. At the fire. I—er—well, I helped get a man out, and my suit was
scorched. I had to borrow Tom’s to wear home. Couldn’t wear mine.”

Mrs. Blackford raised her hands in surprise, and pushed her spectacles
to the top of her head in order better to look at Joe.

“Well, of all things!” she cried. “I never heard tell of such goings on!
The very idea!”

“What’s the matter? What has happened?” asked the rather harsh voice of
Deacon Blackford, as he came up the walk on his way home from the office
of his feed and grain business. “Has that boy been doing something
again?” he asked.

“Doing something! I should say he had!” cried Mrs. Blackford. “He’s got
his good suit burned up at the fire!”

“What?” cried the deacon.

“I couldn’t help it,” said Joe, in self-defense. “I had to save that
man. It was the only way.”

Then Joe told briefly and modestly what he had done. He did not bring
out his true worth in the matter of the rescue, and he hardly made it
plain that, had it not been for his soaking wet suit, Professor Rosello
might have been fatally burned.

“Professor Rosello?” queried Mr. Blackford. “Is he a school teacher,
Joe?”

“No, sir, he’s a professor of magic.”

“Magic! You mean one of those worthless characters who go about giving
silly exhibitions, like the one that was here last night?”

“Yes, he was the one I saved,” Joe answered. “I’m sorry about my suit,
but it couldn’t be helped.”

“The idea!” cried Mrs. Blackford.

Mr. Blackford looked stern.

“A low, public performer!” he murmured. “Was there no one else to save
him—no one who is paid to do such things—firemen with suits that would
not easily burn? Could not one of them save him?”

“There wasn’t time,” Joe answered. “I just ran in, climbed up the rope,
and lowered him down, after I tied my wet suit about him.”

“How did you get your suit wet?” the deacon questioned.

“Swimming the creek.”

“Swimming the creek! Why did you do that?”

“To get to the fire quicker. I didn’t want to wait to go around over the
bridge.”

“Humph!”

Deacon Blackford fairly grunted out the word. He looked sharply at Joe.

“Well, I must say,” he exclaimed sharply, “that you have made a pretty
exhibition of yourself! The idea of first spoiling a suit of clothes by
swimming the creek, and then burning it up!”

“And he had worn that suit only a little over two years!” put in Mrs.
Blackford. “It was his second best. Oh, what a wasteful and careless boy
you are! It’s a shame!”

“That’s what I say!” thundered the deacon. “And, what’s more, you’ll
suffer for this, Joe! You have some money saved up. I shall take this to
pay for the suit you ruined.”

“I didn’t ruin it!” Joe retorted, desperately enough. “I had to save the
man’s life. It was the only way!”

“Stuff and nonsense!” snapped the deacon.

“No nonsense at all!” cried Joe, his temper now thoroughly aroused. “I
just had to do it!”

“Don’t talk back to me!” cried his foster-father. “I’ll teach you not to
be impudent to me!” He drew back his hand as though to strike Joe, but
the latter, after an involuntary closing of his fist, stepped back out
of the way. Joe’s face was pale.

“I’ll not take a blow from you, sir. Not any more,” he said in a quiet
voice.

“You won’t, eh?” stormed the deacon. “We’ll see what you’ll take and
won’t take! You’ll pay for that suit, that’s sure! And we’ll see who’s
boss here! I’ll strike you if I like! You’re not of age yet! Now go to
your room. I don’t want to act hastily. Go to your room at once, before
I get angry,” and, with a stamp of his foot, the old man raised a stern
hand and pointed to the stairway.

Joe turned aside without a word.

CHAPTER VII
MR. BLACKFORD’S TROUBLE

Bitter at heart was Joe Strong as he walked slowly into his room and
shut the door. This was a common form of punishment with the deacon,
since he had given up his frequent whippings of Joe.

Just what effect the old man thought it had on the youth to send him to
his room it is hard to tell. But Joe had often been sent there to sit in
loneliness, often without a meal, or at best with bread and water. At
times the deacon declared bread and water was all Joe could have, but
Mrs. Blackford had a kinder heart, and she would butter the slices she
brought up to Joe.

“Well, I had the row all right,” mused Joe, as he sat down in the chair
near a window. “It was just as I expected. As if I could help getting my
suit scorched!”

From his window Joe could look across the fields to the fireworks
factory, now mostly a heap of ruins. He thought of the professor he had
saved, and he also thought of what Mr. Crabb had said of Joe’s father
and mother.

“If you were only alive now,” thought Joe, with a sigh, “things would be
different. I’d be with you in the circus, and what great times we’d have
together!”

With shining eyes, in which there was a small trace of tears, Joe gazed
off into the distance. He realized that his feelings were getting the
best of him.

“Come, come, old man!” he told himself. “This won’t do! Not at all! Not
for a minute! You’ve got to brace up!”

He arose, raised his arms, and, taking off his coat, began to go through
some simple gymnastic exercises. Even under his shirt one could see the
ripple and play of his superb muscles. Joe was not the sort of athlete
that develops into a “strong man.” He was more of the all-around type,
though he did possess unusual strength for a youth of his age. He could
use it to advantage, too. The trapeze was his favorite, though he could
do some startling feats on the flying rings and the horizontal bars.

“There, I feel better!” Joe announced, as he sat down, breathing a
little faster because of the rapid exercise he had taken. “But I do wish
I had a regular gym. I could work myself up in better shape. But what’s
the use of wishing.”

He could hear, from downstairs, the murmur of the voices of his
foster-father and mother.

“Talking about me, I suppose,” mused Joe. “Trying to decide what
punishment to inflict. Well, I know one thing, and that is if he tries
to give me a whipping I won’t stand it! No, sir! That’s the limit! He
scolded me enough, and he humiliates me by sending me up here, as if I
were some five-year-old child. But that’s as far as I’ll let him go! He
shan’t beat me!

“If he does—if he does, I’ll——”

Joe paused in his thinking. Again his gaze wandered off toward the
burned factory, and again he saw, in fancy, the huddled form of the
magician. “That’s what I’ll do!” exclaimed Joe, this time half aloud. “I
won’t wait for him to give me a beating, which I think he’s planning to
do. No, sir, I won’t wait for that. I’m glad I thought of it. It’s about
the only thing left for me to do. I’ve about reached the limit.”

Joe went to his closet and took out a suit of clothes. It was his
“best,” kept for Sundays and special occasions. Then he went to his
bureau and began to look among the drawers.

“The only thing is about getting this suit back to Tom,” mused Joe.
“I’ll have to do that. If I left it here they might not give it to him.”

He paused to listen once more to the murmur of voices below him. The
deacon’s dull and rumbly and his wife’s shriller.

“Still at it!” said Joe grimly.

From a far and dark corner of the closet Joe brought out an old valise.
It had not often been used, for Joe seldom traveled. Deacon Blackford
had no money to waste on such “foolishness.”

“That’ll hold about all I’ll want to take with me,” Joe mused. “Now, the
next question is, can I get out of here without their suspecting? Of
course, I’ll have to do it after dark.”

Joe went to a window and looked out. What he saw satisfied him.

“I wouldn’t be much of a climber if I couldn’t get down that,” he
murmured with a smile.

“It isn’t as if this were the first trouble we’d had,” mused Joe, “nor
the first time he’d punished me unjustly.”

Joe spoke the truth. Though doing what he thought was the best for his
foster-son, Mr. Blackford was a harsh man. And he did not seem to
realize that Joe was growing up. He made no allowances for that.

“I’m going to quit,” Joe told himself. “I’m going to light out. I
haven’t much money,” and he looked at the sum in a box that, since he
was a little fellow, had served him as a “bank.”

“It won’t take me far,” Joe mused. “I can’t travel in a Pullman car,
that’s sure. That is, not one of the regular ones. A side-door Pullman
for mine!” and Joe smiled as he thought of the tramp’s designation of a
freight car.

“And after I quit here—well, I guess I can find something to do. I ought
to be able to make my living.”

Joe laid out his money, and then, rather idly, he began palming coins,
doing various tricks with them, sending them spinning up in the air
seemingly to vanish.

“A little out of order,” Joe said, as he missed one trick. “I’ll have to
practice.”

As Joe put the money in his pocket his fingers came in contact with a
paper. He drew it out. It was the list of towns where Professor Rosello
would play.

“That’s what I’ll do,” decided the young wizard. “I’ll go to him. He
said he’d help me if he could. I don’t imagine he is very rich, but he’s
good. And if he can’t give me anything else he can advise me. I need
that, I’m thinking.”

It was now late afternoon, almost time for supper, and Joe wondered
whether he would get anything to eat.

“I’ll go whether I do or not,” he said. “I can buy something after I’m
away from here, for I sure am going.”

He could not hear his foster-parents talking now, and he wondered
whether his fate had been decided on. In such case the deacon might come
upstairs with the whip he occasionally used on Joe.

“If he comes I won’t let him in,” thought our hero, as he locked his
room door. “He’ll have to break that down to get me, and I don’t believe
he’ll do it—cost him too much for repairs. As soon as it’s dark enough,
I’ll slip out the window. No, I guess I’d better wait until they’re in
bed and asleep. No use taking chances, and I’ve got plenty of time. I’ll
wait until about midnight.”

Joe went on with his preparations for leaving home. He had no regrets,
for, after all, it had not been much of a home of late.

“If only my father and mother were alive!” Joe said softly. “It sure
would be great to travel around the country with them. My father could
show me all his new tricks, and my mother would teach me more about
horses. But there’s no use wishing.”

As Joe stood looking out through the window he saw Deacon Blackford
pass, walking down the street in the direction of the feed and grain
store which he owned.

“That’s queer,” mused Joe. “I wonder what he’s going back to the store
for at this hour. He never does that so near supper time. He must have
forgotten something. Or maybe he’s got something new in his head about
me. I wonder what he’s going back for?”

Joe might have wondered still more could he have looked into the feed
store a little later. For Deacon Blackford was in close consultation
with two men—in such close consultation that it was necessary to shut
and lock the office door.

“Well, you’ve come back, I see,” remarked one of the men. He had shifty
eyes that did not gaze straight at the person with whom he was talking.

“Yes, Denton, I’ve come back, as I said I would,” replied Mr. Blackford.
“But I tell you now, it’s no use! I’m not going to give up another
cent.”

“Will you give us the papers then?” asked the man called Denton. He
seemed to be pleading, rather than demanding.

“Give us the papers,” he went on. “We can get a little back from the
investment then. We won’t lose it all. If you won’t give us the money
give us the papers.”

“He’ll give us both, Burke, that’s what he’ll give us!” broke in the
other man. This man had a hard face, and his eyes, unlike those of his
companion, met his opponent’s boldly. But they did not have a pleasant
or safe look—those eyes. “He’ll give us both, that’s what he’ll give
us!” said this man again. “If he doesn’t he’ll suffer for it!” and he
banged his fist down on the deacon’s desk.

“Oh, go easy now, Harrison,” advised Burke Denton. “Go a bit easy.”

“No, that’s not my way!” exclaimed Jake Harrison. “What I want I’ll get,
if I have to take it out of his hide. He went into this investment with
us and——”

“But you said it would be successful, and that we’d all make money,”
whined the deacon. “I didn’t think I’d lose.”

“I told you it wasn’t a dead sure thing,” said Harrison. “You knew it
was a risk when you went into it. Now we’re in a hole, and you will have
to help us out.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you’ll be in more trouble. What we want is money enough to tide us
over, or else those papers, so we can use ’em to raise money on from
some one else. Come now, you’ve got the money and we know it. We’re
going to have it, too!” And again Harrison banged his fist down on the
desk, so that Mr. Blackford jumped.

There was a worried look on his face as he looked at the two men—one
shifty, and inclined to temporize, merely through fear of getting into
too-deep water, the other a bolder and more hardened character, it
seemed.

“Come, what do you say?” asked Harrison. “The papers or the money?”

CHAPTER VIII
THE RUNAWAY

Deacon Blackford did not answer at once. He remained in his seat at his
desk, looking first at one man and then at the other. Often his fingers
would beat a drumming tattoo on the top of the desk, as though he were
too nervous to keep still.

“Well!” said Harrison, sharply, “what’s it to be? We can’t wait all
night!”

“Oh, we might give him a little more time,” suggested Denton. “I know
what it is——”

“You keep still!” fiercely interrupted Harrison. “I know what I’m
talking about! We’ve given him too much time as it is. We need the
papers or the money, and we’re going to get what we want!”

“Well, I s’pose it’ll have to be as you say,” weakly agreed the other.

“That’s what it will!” was the prompt comment. “Come now, Blackford,
settle up with us about this investment business. What’s it to be—the
papers or the money?”

“Neither one!” said the deacon sharply. “I won’t give you any more
money. And if you think I’m going to give up the valuable papers, which
represent the only claim I have on you, you’re very much mistaken.
You’ll get neither, and that’s my last word!”

This time he banged his fist down on the desk with a sudden energy that
seemed to surprise even Harrison. An ugly look came over the face of the
hardened man. He half closed his bold eyes and leaned forward toward the
deacon, craning his neck forward like some big snake about to strike its
victim.

“So that’s your answer, is it?” he asked.

“That’s what it is!” declared Joe’s foster-father. “You’ll get neither
the money nor the papers!”

“Oh, come now,” began Denton, in rather pleading tones. “You’d better
think again, Deacon. Take a little more time, and——”

“I’ve had all the time I want,” said Mr. Blackford. “That’s my last
answer—neither the money nor the papers!”

“Well now, if I were you——” began Denton, when Harrison stopped him with
a fierce gesture.

“That’s enough,” he cried. “If that’s his last word, it’s ours, too.
Come on, Denton.”

He arose as if to leave.

“But I thought we were going to get——”

“Oh, we’ll get what we want, all right!” broke in Harrison.

“Not from me, you won’t!” declared the deacon.

“We’re not through with you yet, and don’t you forget it, Amos
Blackford,” retorted Harrison, and his voice was cool and cutting now.
“You’ll hear from us again, and in a way you least expect. Come on,
Denton,” and, turning, the bold-faced rascal started from the office of
the feed and grain dealer.

Denton hesitated as though he wanted to stay and argue the matter
further, but Harrison caught him fiercely by the arm and fairly pulled
him outside.

When the two men were gone, Deacon Blackford sat in the now dim office,
for dusk was falling. The grain dealer sat still for about a minute.
Then he said, aloud:

“Well, I’m well rid of those rascals. I’m glad I stood out firm against
them, or they’d have made me lose more money. No, indeed, I’ll not give
up those papers, and I won’t sink any more of my hard-earned cash in
their investment schemes. I’m glad I’m through with them, even if I do
lose what I put into their business. Yes, indeed! And I’m glad this talk
is over.”

The deacon locked his desk, and prepared to leave. He had come down to
his place of business at this unusual hour, when all his employees were
gone, on purpose to be alone with the two men to whom he had granted an
interview.

“Yes, I’m glad it’s over,” he said again. “Now I can give my mind over
to dealing with Joe. That boy is certainly a trial to me! It’s the bad
blood of his foolish parents cropping out, I suppose. I almost wish I
had not adopted him, but I thought he would outgrow the circus and
magician instincts. But they are coming out, in spite of all we have
done. And to think of burning his suit just to rescue one of those
good-for-nothing sleight-of-hand performers!”

The deacon shook his head, walked slowly from his office, and, after
locking the door, started down the street in the direction of his home.

“Yes, I really must punish Joe,” he murmured. “He needs a severe
lesson.”

“You’re late, Amos,” said Mrs. Blackford, as her husband came in to
supper. “You’re very late. The victuals are all spoiled, but it’s a pity
to cook anything else.”

“Oh, yes, don’t throw ’em away,” said the old man quickly. “We can’t
afford to waste anything. I don’t mind if the potatoes are dried up. I
can eat ’em. I haven’t much appetite, anyhow.”

The interview with the two rascals had upset the deacon more than he
thought. He sat heavily down in his place at the table, while his wife
began to serve the meal.

“What made you so late?” she asked. “And why did you have to go back to
the store? You never did that before.”

“Oh, I had some business to look after,” Mr. Blackford answered. “It was
important, but it’s all settled now. I won’t have to do it again.”

He began to eat his supper, and then he happened to think of Joe.
Perhaps the sight of the vacant chair on the opposite side of the table
brought the boy to his mind.

“Did you take him up anything?” he asked his wife, nodding his head
toward Joe’s upper room.

“I gave him some bread, just as you told me to.”

“Anything else?” asked the old man sharply.

“Well—er—I had plenty of milk so I thought he might as well have a glass
of that instead of water.”

“Um!” grunted the deacon, but that was all he said just then. Mrs.
Blackford did not add that she had buttered the bread, and that the
slices were unusually thick, and that she had put one extra on the plate
she handed into Joe’s room. Mrs. Blackford was a little afraid of the
deacon, but Joe had, on this occasion, profited by her slight kindness
to him.

She had taken Joe’s simple meal up to him at the usual supper time, and
he had unlocked his door while taking in the plate of bread and butter
and the glass of milk. He did not speak, nor did Mrs. Blackford. It was
the regular form of procedure on such unpleasant occasions as this.

Joe was glad when he saw the milk and the extra slice of bread.

“If I’m going to run away,” he thought, “I’ll need all the food they
give me. I won’t be able to get anything at midnight, which is about the
time I leave. I suppose I might raid the pantry,” he added to himself
after a moment’s thought, “but then they might hear me and stop me. No,
I’ll just have to make this do.”

He ate the bread and drank the milk, thinking the while of his future.
It was a bold step he was taking, and yet Joe did not regret having
decided on it. He had reached the limit of patience as far as his
foster-parents were concerned. True, he owed something to them, but he
felt he had more than paid the debt.

For when Joe’s real parents died there was a little sum of money
realized from the sale of Professor Morretti’s effects, and this the
deacon had taken charge of. He used it to clothe and educate Joe, taking
out a certain sum each year for “board and lodging.”

In consequence the money was all used up, the last of it about two years
prior to the opening of this story, so that Joe’s little inheritance had
paid his way for some years.

Then, when the lad was old enough, the deacon, before and after school
hours, had called on Joe’s strength in the feed and grain business, Joe
being an efficient helper.

The deacon was honest in his way, and he allowed Joe money for this
help. But he did not overpay the lad and part of what he gave, the
deacon took back for board and lodging, though allowing Joe a certain
sum each week. Joe had saved most of this, and it was from this horde
that the deacon proposed deducting the money to pay for the burned suit.

“But he shan’t do it!” said Joe fiercely, as he felt of the money he had
put in the pocket of his best suit. He was going to wear that when he
left, carrying Tom’s suit, which he intended leaving on the door-step of
the Simpson home, with a note explaining the circumstances.

After his supper, if one could call it that, Joe undressed, and lay down
on the bed. He was tired from the day’s excitement, and he realized that
he had a hard night before him. His plans, as yet, were rather hazy. All
he was sure of was that he was going to run away.

Deacon Blackford did not eat much supper. His wife was rather nervously
anticipating another scene between him and Joe, but the deacon did not
mention the lad’s name. Mr. Blackford sat in glum silence after the
meal. Finally Mrs. Blackford could stand it no longer. She wanted to
know the worst.

“What are you going to do to—him?” she finally asked.

“Who? Joe?”

“Yes. Are you going to—to whip him?”

“I think likely I shall,” answered the old man. “He’s got to be taught a
lesson. But I’ll wait until morning to do it. I want to do it without
getting angry at him.”

Mrs. Blackford breathed a silent sigh of relief. She felt that if the
deacon put off the whipping until the next day he might not do it at
all. And she dreaded to have it happen. She realized, if her husband did
not, that Joe was too big now to be whipped.

The evening began to lengthen into night, and the deacon prepared for
bed. Joe was listening in his room for a cessation of sounds that would
indicate it would be safe for him to attempt to leave. Finally all was
still.

Joe cautiously arose and dressed in the dark. There was a half-moon, and
it gave him illumination enough to see without making a light in his
room. Putting on his best suit, Joe made a bundle of Tom’s clothing. The
lad had already packed a valise with his few belongings.

With a length of strong fish-line he lowered his valise from the window
to the ground below. He was glad the deacon’s bedroom was on the other
side of the house. Next Joe lowered the bundle, and then he prepared to
make his way down to the ground.

To do this he was going to lower himself, hand over hand, on the
lightning rod. The deacon was old-fashioned enough to have one of these
contrivances on his house, and the twisted, galvanized rod, in its glass
insulating supports, was close to Joe’s window.

To a youth of Joe’s muscle and ability in gymnastics it was no feat at
all to climb down the lightning rod. On the contrary, Joe thought it
fun—or he would have under pleasanter circumstances.

“I’ll just give this a pull or two, to make sure it will hold me,” Joe
mused. “I don’t want to come a cropper.”

Leaning out of his window, he exerted his strength against the lightning
rod. To his dismay it was loose, and a little stronger pull would have
torn it away from the side of the house.

“Whew!” whistled Joe, softly. “That’s bad. I’ll never dare trust my
weight to that. I’d come down all at once. I wouldn’t mind the fall so
very much, but I’d make a racket, and he’d sure wake up. Now what can I
do? I ought to have tested that rod this afternoon, and then I could
have begun tearing up the sheets into a rope. Maybe I can do that now.”

Joe was about to do this, then decided on a more straightforward plan.

“They’re both sound asleep,” he reflected. “I can easily slip down the
stairs and go out the front door. I won’t make any noise, and it will be
safer even than going down by a bed-sheet rope. That might break or slip
off what I tied it to, and I’d fall anyhow. Yes, I’ll go out the front
way, but I’ll have to be very quiet.”

Joe took off his shoes, unlocked his door with great caution, and went
softly down the stairs. To his delight they did not creak much, and he
soon found himself in the lower hall.

As he was at the front door turning the key, he heard a sudden noise
behind him in the darkness.

“Jinks! He’s heard me!” reflected Joe quickly. “I’ve got to run for it!”

He opened the door and fairly leaped off the steps in his stocking-feet.
It was the work of but an instant to run around the side path, pick up
the bundle of Tom’s clothes and the valise, and then leap over the fence
to the sidewalk. Then, still carrying his shoes and other things, Joe
sped on, running away, fearful lest the awakened deacon should run after
him.

CHAPTER IX
THE OVERTURNED LAMP

The noise which Joe Strong had heard was not caused, as he had feared,
by the rousing of Deacon Blackford. All things considered, it might have
been well for Joe had it been.

While the youth was running away as fast as he could, considering the
fact that he had on no shoes, but had to carry them, as well as his
valise and a bundle of clothes, something was taking place back in the
deacon’s house that was destined to have quite an effect on Joe’s life.

He had heard a noise, that was certain, and it had come from the
interior of the dark house.

But the noise was not made by the deacon. Instead it came from one of
two men who were cautiously entering the Blackford homestead through a
rear door, which they had opened by the simple but effective method of
“nippering the key.”

That is one of them, with a pair of peculiarly shaped pincers, or
nippers, had reached the little projecting round end of the key that
extends beyond the flat, or ward, part. This is the little end one
sometimes sees sticking partly out of the keyhole, if on the opposite
side of the door from the key itself.

Grasping this little end in a pair of nippers that held it securely, one
of the men easily turned the key—almost as easily as if he had been on
the other side of the door using his fingers to twist the opener in the
manner intended by law for it to turn.

As the back door of the deacon’s house softly and slowly swung open, two
men, wearing masks, quietly entered. And then one of them, as he reached
in his pocket for an electric flash lamp, knocked against a chair.

“Keep still! What’s the matter with you, Denton, banging about in that
way?” demanded the other of the men in a fierce whisper, which, however,
was a most guarded whisper. The sound of it did not carry two feet.
“What are you doing, anyhow?”

“I couldn’t help it,” answered Denton. “How was I to know, Jake, that
the confounded chair was in the road?”

“You ought to be able to see in the dark,” was the retort. “You’ve been
up to enough shady work of late.”

“No more than you!”

The reply came sharply. The men were on the verge of a quarrel, and at a
time when they needed to work in harmony. All this had passed in a
second, the echo of the noise made by the chair hardly having had time
to die away.

“Come, this won’t do—scrapping,” remarked Harrison, in more conciliatory
tones. “We’ve got to get busy. Listen and see if you think that racket
roused him.”

The men stood still in the darkness, tensely waiting. They did not hear
a sound. They did not hear Joe open the front door, close it and run
away. This was because they were at the very back of the house, and also
because Joe moved very softly. Thinking, as he did, that the deacon had
awakened and was coming after him, Joe determined not to betray himself
by any sound.

So, having made a noise themselves, the intruders, listening to
determine if it had roused the inmates, did not hear Joe’s escape.

“I guess it’s all right,” came from Denton, still whispering.

“We can’t afford to take chances on guessing,” was the remark of his
companion. “We’ve got to make sure. We can’t risk being caught, for what
we’re going to do is a state-prison offense.”

“How? It is? We’re only taking what we have at least half a right to.”

“Never mind! Wait until we get through.”

“You’re not going to do anything desperate, are you?” asked Denton, and
he seemed to fear his bolder and rasher companion.

“Keep still. You’ll see,” was the reply. “Listen for a sound. If we
don’t hear any in three minutes we’ll go on and do the job.”

The men waited, tense, silent and anxious, standing there in the
darkness, ready to run at the slightest sound. But none came. The noise
made by one of them in the collision with the chair, seemed not to have
aroused any one in the house.

“All right, come on,” whispered Harrison. “You know where he keeps the
papers, don’t you?”

“Yes. In his desk. It’s in what he calls the ‘back parlor.’ I was in
there a couple of times when we were putting the deal through, and I
know the very drawer he keeps the papers in. That is, if he hasn’t taken
them out.”

“Oh, I don’t think he has, Burke.”

“He might have, Jake. You put it on a bit strong this afternoon, telling
him we’d get the best of him anyhow. He may be expecting something like
this.”

“Never! He thinks we’ve given up. But of course we won’t!”

“I should say not! We need those papers.”

“Yes, and we need cash, too!”

“You’re not going to do that are you—rob him of money?”

Burke Denton seemed much alarmed.

“Oh, keep still and come on,” roughly ordered the other. “We are
chinning away here like a couple of women. There’s work to be done.
Everybody’s asleep, it’s perfectly safe.”

“Where does that lad sleep—Blackford’s son?”

“Upstairs on the top floor, I think. But he isn’t Blackford’s son—only
adopted.”

“Think he’ll make any trouble?”

“No. We can take care of him.”

But Joe Strong was then too far off to make any trouble for the
intruders. They were now cautiously moving through the house, one of
them occasionally flashing a beam from his electric torch to show the
way through the rooms.

“Here’s the back parlor,” announced Denton, who seemed to know the plan
of the house.

“All right! Now we’ll get busy,” whispered his companion. “Get out your
keys. We may have to try a lot of ’em before we find one that fits.”

“And I sure hope we do find one,” murmured Denton. “I don’t want to have
to force open the desk. It makes too much noise.”

“You’re right there.”

The two criminals seemed on better terms now, and were working in
harmony. Advancing by the intermittent flashes of the electric torch,
they approached a large, old-fashioned desk where Deacon Blackford kept
books, papers and many other things, partly connected with his business,
and partly with his home life.

The desk was one of those old-fashioned ones, with an upper part made in
the form of a bookcase, with two glass doors. Below this was a sort of
flap, that could be let down. This formed a writing table, and when the
flap was down it disclosed rows of pigeonholes, small drawers and
compartments for books and papers. Still below this section, and on
either side of a hollowed-out place, were more drawers.

“Come on, get busy!” directed Harrison. “You’re better at opening desks
than I am. Get out your keys. I’ll hold the torch.”

Denton passed the flashing torch over, and while his companion held it,
having slipped the switch to a permanent place, so that there was a
steady beam of light, the man with the keys proceeded to try one after
another in the keyhole of the desk. He was attempting to lower the
writing flap, to come to the compartments and drawers inside.

Key after key he tried, making none but the slightest sounds. But the
lock did not give.

“Guess we’ll have to jimmy it after all,” said Denton. “Hold the light
nearer, can’t you? Can’t see a thing.”

“The light’s as near as I can get it, and not be in your way,” was the
retort. “Oh, look! Hang it all! the battery’s giving out!”

As he spoke the light quickly began to fade from a bright, white glow of
the tungsten filament to a dull yellow. From this it became only a
little red streak, and the two men were suddenly left in darkness.

“This is a nice pickle!” said Harrison, angrily. “Why didn’t you put in
a fresh battery?”

“I did. You must have been flashing it too often.”

“Go on! This is the first time I’ve held the light to-night. It’s all
your fault! Now we’ve either got to call it off or work by the use of
matches. We can’t see to get the right papers in the dark.”

“Wait a minute. I have a scheme,” suggested Denton. “I saw a lamp on the
table right here. I’ll light that.”

“If it’s got any oil in it,” half-sneered Harrison.

“Oh, they keep their lamps filled I reckon. Stand still now, and I’ll
light it.”

Denton struck a match, found the lamp and presently had the wick aglow.

“Turn it down, you chump!” hoarsely whispered Harrison. “That can be
seen from outside.”

Denton lowered the wick until the light was dim, but even then it was
better to work by than had been the electric torch, for the illumination
was more diffused.

Denton went to work with the keys again, and luck seemed to be with him,
for after two trials the desk was opened. It was the work of but a few
minutes for the men to sort over the papers and pick out those they
wanted.

“Now we’ve got ’em!” exclaimed Denton. “I guess he’ll talk business to
us now!”

“We won’t bother to talk business, now we’ve got what we want,” answered
Harrison. “We’ll just light out. But before we go we might as well have
this. No use passing up a chance like this.”

He reached over his companion’s shoulder and took a roll of bills from a
drawer that had been opened in the course of the search for the papers.

“You’re not going to take that, are you?” asked Denton. “Why, we’ve got
the papers.”

“Yes; and we’re going to have some money, too. I told the deacon we’d
get even with him, and I’m doing it. This will come in handy.”

He pocketed the money. The other shook his head.

“That’s wrong!” he said. “It’s risky, too. We ought to be satisfied with
the papers.”

“Maybe you are, but I’m not. I’ll take all the cash I can lay my hands
on. And while we’re here we might as well see if there’s any more.
There’s a clock over there. Lots of country folks stick bills in clocks.
I’m going to have a look.”

Despite the protests of his companion, Harrison went over to a mantel
where stood a large wooden clock. As he opened the door he exclaimed:

“Talk about luck! Here’s another roll. Say, I’m glad we came!”

“Put that back!” commanded the other. “We have enough.”

“Never can have enough cash,” chuckled the other. “This makes the haul
worth while. Now we’ll go!”

The talk had been done in whispers, and every move of the men was a
silent one. Denton, who was not quite such a rascal as Harrison,
protested against taking the money, but in vain.

“I’ve got it, and I’m going to keep it!” was the last word of Harrison.

“Well, it’ll get us into trouble, you see if it won’t,” declared the
more timid of the intruders.

“If it does, it’ll help us out of trouble, too. I’m going to keep the
money, and you don’t have to take your share if you don’t want to. Now
we’ll just take another look through the desk, for we may have missed
something, and then——”

But what else Harrison was going to propose was not made manifest, for
at that instant Denton exclaimed:

“Keep still! I hear a noise!”

There was no doubt of it. Some one could be heard coming down the front
stairs.

“Come on!” hoarsely whispered Harrison. “We’ve got to beat it!”

Denton turned to go out the way they had come in, by the rear door, but
his companion caught him by the arm.

“Not that way!” he whispered in his ear. “We’d be caught sure! This
window—the one by the desk—come on!”

It was the work of but an instant to slip the catch and raise the
window. Harrison jumped out followed by Denton, and as the latter
cleared the sill his foot knocked the lamp off the desk to the floor.

There was a crash of glass, and as Denton and Harrison ran off in the
darkness they saw a flash of flame, and they smelled burning kerosene.

“What’s that?” asked Harrison, turning for a swift backward glance.

“I kicked over the lamp—accidental,” gasped Denton. “It’s exploded and
started a fire. We—we’ll have to go back and put it out!”

Harrison laughed in a low chuckle.

“Go back nothing!” he whispered fiercely. “Let it burn!”

CHAPTER X
THE SIDE-DOOR PULLMAN

Joe Strong, unaware of the exciting events that were taking place in the
home of his foster-parents—a home he had deserted for what, to him, were
good and sufficient reasons—hurried on down the silent and dark streets
of Bedford. It was unusual in such a small town for any one to be out
after midnight, unless there were some special occasion, and the young
wizard had the place to himself.

“Well, I got out of that all right,” he said, half aloud, as he stopped,
when safely around the corner, to put on his shoes. “I got away without
the deacon’s seeing me. But he was right after me, and I didn’t think I
made much noise.

“Let’s see now,” went on our hero, musingly, as he straightened up after
lacing his shoes. “What had I better do? Say, it’s great to feel free to
do just as one pleases for the first time in years!”

Joe flung up his arms and gazed at the silent, blinking stars which
sprinkled the sky overhead.

“It sure does feel good to be your own boss! I can go when I please, and
come when I please, and I don’t have to stand the shame of a beating
just because I burned a suit in saving a man’s life! It sure is good to
be free!”

Joe was to learn that it is not all joy and happiness to be “free,” and
to be one’s “own boss,” but, just at present, he felt only a sense of
exultation.

“First I’ve got to leave this bundle at Tom’s house,” thought Joe, as he
picked up the suit which had been loaned him. “I’ll leave it there with
a note that will explain. I wish I could see some of the boys to bid ’em
good-bye, but maybe it’s just as well not to. They might laugh at me,
and I wouldn’t want that. Some day, when I’m a well-known magician, I’ll
come back and give ’em a show that will open their eyes!”

Joe next picked up his valise. It was rather heavy, for he had stuffed
in it belongings that had accumulated for years—little mementos and
keepsakes of younger days. He also had in it what clothes he felt he
would need. But Joe did not feel the weight of his satchel now. It was
as light as a feather to him.

And to prove it Joe tossed it up in the air, also the bundle of Tom’s
clothes, and there in the darkness of midnight, standing in the middle
of one of Bedford’s principal streets, he juggled the objects in the
most approved style, using a small stone he had picked up for the third
piece to make a symmetrical act.

“I’ll be able to do some juggling if I have to, when I want to fill in
between tricks,” thought Joe. “I do hope I can get work in some sort of
a show. Professor Rosello ought to be able to give me a letter,
introducing me to some of his friends in the business.

“Well, standing here juggling and thinking about it won’t get me
anywhere,” said Joe, in a sort of stage whisper. “I’d better be moving
if I’m to get a berth in my side-door Pullman,” and he laughed in a
silent fashion at the idea.

Joe had made up his mind to go to the town of Lorilard, distant about
fifty miles from Bedford, where Professor Rosello was to give a
performance the next day, and for two or three days following. This much
the magician had told Joe in the interview at the hotel, when he gave
him a list of his stopping places.

“Yes, I’ll go to see the professor at Lorilard,” decided Joe. “He can’t
any more than turn me down. But he promised to help me, and he was
grateful to me. I believe he’ll be able to do something.” Now for Tom’s
house, and then my ‘berth!’”

Joe had made up his mind to take the midnight freight that stopped at
Bedford, and which arrived in Lorilard some time in the early morning.
Joe was not particular as to time.

“I’ll have to save what money I have,” thought the boy, “so I won’t have
any to waste on railroad fare. A freight car will suit me.”

Joe Strong walked on through the dark and silent streets. He kept on the
grass as much as possible, for his footsteps rang out loudly in the
quietness, and Joe knew that “Hen” Sylvester and Tim Donovan, the two
policemen of Bedford, did not spend quite all the night in sleep.

“I just wouldn’t like ’em to see me going away like this,” thought Joe.
“They’d be sure to stop and ask me questions. And if I make too much
noise walking on the sidewalks they may hear me. It’s me for the green
grass.”

And so he went on until he came to the Simpson house. Joe there came to
a pause, and looked at the dwelling. No light showed.

“Guess they’re all asleep,” he mused. “I wouldn’t want any of the family
to see me sneaking up and leaving a bundle on the steps. They might take
me for a burglar, and raise a row.”

Silently and cautiously he opened the front gate, and tiptoed up the
brick walk, leaving his valise outside. He laid the suit of clothes,
with a little note he had written, in plain view on the door-step, and
then with a whispered good-bye to Tom, which that sound-sleeping lad did
not hear, Joe set off again.

“Now I’m really on my way,” he told himself. “The whole world lies
before me, as we used to see in our school readers, and I have my own
fortune to make. And I hope I begin to make it soon,” mused the lad,
whimsically. “At least I hope Dame Fortune allows me to draw a few
dollars a week in advance.”

As Joe turned into a street that led to the freight station and caught
sight of what was left standing of the fireworks factory, he could but
think of the stirring events in which he had played such a prominent
part—the discussion with his chums of the professor’s tricks, the alarm
of the explosion, the swimming of the creek, and the sensational rescue
of Professor Rosello.

There was no sign of the fire as Joe passed the scene of it now. It had
all died out, and the main building was surrounded by heaps of ashes
which marked where the smaller structures had stood.

Two loud, shrill whistles broke the midnight stillness.

“The freight!” cried Joe, breaking into a run. “She’s getting ready to
leave! I wonder if I can make it.

“She’s leaving ahead of time,” Joe went on. The freight arrived in
Bedford at midnight and left an hour later, an event which Joe had
counted on in making his calculations to leave by it. But the train was
getting ready to pull out now, fully twenty minutes early, the two
whistles Joe heard being the signal for “off brakes;” though with the
modern air apparatus this was really only a starting signal, the
brakemen being no longer required to run along the tops of the cars to
loosen the wheels.

“I’ll have to hustle!” Joe told himself, as he increased his pace.

The youth was in fine physical condition, and he knew he could easily
reach the freight train before it passed entirely beyond the station,
for it was a long one.

“But I counted on having time to pick out a car,” thought Joe, still
running toward the railroad. “I wonder what I can do now?”

The matter worried him. It is not easy to “jump” a moving freight train.
There are no cars with steps, such as passenger coaches have, with
convenient hand rails. Jumping a moving freight train is a risky matter,
even for a trained railroad brakeman.

“And how I’m to do it with this valise I don’t know,” thought Joe. “But
it’s got to be done!”

He was glad he was in such good physical trim.

“I see what the trouble is,” Joe went on. “There wasn’t any shipment of
fireworks to-night, and that’s why the freight pulled out earlier. I
didn’t think of that.”

As he ran on down the street he heard a voice behind him calling:

“Here! Hold on! Stop! Who are you?”

“Hen Sylvester!” gasped Joe. “He’s seen me and he’s suspicious. Well,
I’ve no time to stop and explain now. I’d miss the train sure!”

He ran on, faster than before. He heard the patter of feet behind him,
and again the hail:

“Hold on, or I’ll shoot!”

“He’ll only shoot in the air if he does,” Joe told himself. “I’ll take a
chance. I guess he doesn’t know who I am.”

He was near the freight depot now. Another few steps and he was on the
long covered platform along which the train was moving. None of the
trainmen or depot freight handlers were in sight. It was a “light”
night, and they had gotten through early.

Joe watched the train gliding along in front of him, rapidly acquiring
speed. The platform was on a level with the floor of the freight cars.

“If I could only see one with an open door,” mused Joe. “Then I could
dive into it. I don’t dare take a chance of jumping in between two cars.
I might slip down between the buffers.”

Eagerly he watched the gliding train. Oh, for an open door!

Joe heard other feet now pounding along the wooden platform.

“It’s Hen coming to see who I am!” thought Joe.

He looked for a hiding place. And yet to hide meant to lose the chance
of taking the freight out of town.

“I saw him come up here!” some one said.

“We’ll get him,” said another. “He’s probably a burglar!”

“Tim Donovan is with Hen now,” thought Joe. “They’re both after me—the
whole Bedford police force,” and in spite of his predicament he
chuckled.

Just then there glided past him a freight car with a wide open door.

“Here’s my chance!” cried Joe half aloud. And the next second he made a
flying leap into the moving “side-door Pullman.”

Joe Strong was on his way—whither?

CHAPTER XI
A SURPRISED DEACON

Deacon Blackford had certainly heard a noise. It was not the slight
sound made by Joe Strong, when that young magician made his escape from
the house, but it was the louder noise made by the two rascals in taking
the papers and money.

“What’s that, Amos?” asked Mrs. Abigail Blackford, as she too heard the
suspicious sound.

“I don’t know,” he answered sleepily enough. He had lain awake the early
part of the night, tossing restlessly, for the memory of the scene in
the afternoon with the two men had bothered the deacon.

“But, Amos,” persisted his wife, “it _is_ a noise.”

“Yes,” he admitted, after listening a moment, “it surely is.”

“Hadn’t you better get up and see what it is?” she suggested.

He waited a moment before replying, meanwhile listening intently. The
sound was plainer now.

“Couldn’t be cats, could it?” the deacon asked, and his voice was
hopeful. He did not like to get up, for he was tired and sleepy.

“Cats! No, the idea!” his wife exclaimed. “It’s somebody downstairs
inside the house, Amos, and you’ve got to get up and see who it is.”

“Queer time for anybody to be calling,” grumbled Joe’s foster-father.

“Calling! It isn’t anybody calling!” exclaimed Mrs. Blackford in a
shrill whisper. “It’s burglars if it’s anybody. Get up, Amos, and drive
’em out. Call Joe to help you. He’s good and strong. He can handle
almost as much as you can.”

But without waiting to call Joe, Mr. Blackford gave a jump out of bed
and hurried down the stairs in the darkness. As he went down he became
aware of a light in the back parlor—the room where stood his desk, which
was like a safe to him, and the old clock where his wife insisted on
keeping her small roll of bills, on the theory that burglars would never
think of money being in a clock.

“It is some one,” muttered the deacon. “I’m glad I got up.”

He hurried on, taking no pains to muffle the “clap-clap” of the heels of
his slippers, into which he had hurriedly thrust his feet. “Clap-clap”
they went, down the stairs.

Just as he reached the door of the back parlor the deacon saw a form
disappearing through the window. Who it was he could not see, as just
then the heel of the person making an egress in this queer fashion hit
and knocked over the lamp, which exploded with a slight noise, the
burning oil setting fire to the carpet and the lace curtains.

For the moment the fear of fire was uppermost in the mind of the deacon.
He saw the stream of blazing oil spreading, and he knew that in a few
moments more the whole room would be ablaze.

But the deacon was quick, and, fortunately did not lose his presence of
mind. He caught up a heavy rug, and, not going near enough the blaze to
let his own thin night garments catch, he tossed the rug over the blaze,
smothering it.

Then with a quick motion he tore down the burning lace curtains, and
tossed them out of the open window, where they could harmlessly consume
themselves on the grass. The deacon burned his hands slightly in pulling
down the curtains, but he did not notice that in the excitement of the
moment.

The fire was out almost as soon as it had started, for he had tossed the
rug over burning lamp and all, and now only some dense black smoke
remained to tell what had happened.

“Whew!” panted the deacon, “that was a close call! It’s a good thing I
got up when I did, or the whole house would have gone! A narrow shave!”

He got a pail of water to toss on the smouldering carpet. After he had
lifted the smothering rug, and as he doused out the few remaining sparks
his wife called to him.

“Anybody down there, Amos?”

“No, nobody now,” grimly answered the old man.

“Well, it smells like some one was smoking down there. I smell smoke,
Amos. There _must_ be somebody there!”

“No! They’ve gone,” he answered. “It was the lamp you smelled smoking.
It blew up!”

“Blew up! Deacon Blackford what ails you? What’s happened, anyhow?”

“I don’t rightly know yet, myself. Seems quite considerable must have
happened, and it might have been worse. You can come down if you want
to. There’s nobody here now but me, and the fire’s out.”

“The fire’s out!” cried his wife from the head of the stairs. “What
fire? Who started the fire?”

“Come down and you’ll see it all,” he answered, looking about to make
sure there were no stray sparks anywhere.

Mrs. Blackford lost no time in descending, and her surprise was as great
as was the deacon’s. But it was the loss of her curtains, the burned
hole in the carpet, the broken lamp and the charred rug that surprised
Joe’s foster-mother. She had not seen the intruder go out of the window,
as had her husband.

“What in the world—how did it—who——?” she began, hardly knowing what
question to ask first. But the deacon cut in with:

“I don’t know any more about it than you do. I came down in time to see
somebody go through the window and kick over the lamp. Then the fire
started and I had to hustle to put it out.”

“Some one went through the window! Who in the world could it have been?
Did you speak to him?”

“Burglars don’t generally leave a card, nor stop to talk,” answered the
old man grimly. “But I guess——”

The deacon did not finish, but crossed the room to his desk. He noticed
that the flap was down, and he knew he had closed and locked it the
night before. Hurriedly he ran through his papers, and then straightened
up with a queer look on his face.

“They’re gone!” he gasped. “Gone!”

“What?” asked his wife. “What’s gone?”

“My investment papers—the securities—the only thing I had to show what
money was due me. They’re gone and whoever has ’em can make use of ’em!
I’ve been robbed!”

Turning again to the desk he opened a small drawer.

“He took the money too!” he muttered. “Every cent of it, and there was
nigh on to a hundred dollars there!”

He fairly moaned out the words, and putting his hand to his head sank
weakly into a chair. Mrs. Blackford regarded her husband pityingly and
darted toward him, fearing he was going to faint, though he had never
done it in his life. Then a sudden idea came to her.

She rushed over to the clock, opened it and fell back, raising her hands
in the air in astonishment.

“Mine’s gone too!” she cried! “The thirty-nine dollars I had in the
clock! The burglar took that too! Oh, this is terrible! You must call
the constables, Amos! We’ve been robbed! They took my money! Call Joe,
and send him after Hen Sylvester. I’ll call him,” for the deacon seemed
incapable of action just then.

Mrs. Blackford hurried upstairs, and called:

“Joe! Joe! Get up! There’ve been burglars in the house! They’ve robbed
your pa and me, and set fire to the place! Get up and go for the
constables!”

“Is he coming?” asked the deacon, whose heart was not beating quite so
fast now.

“I can’t seem to make him hear,” said Mrs. Blackford.

“I’ll rout him out,” said the old man. “I guess he’d better go after the
constable. He can go quicker than I can.”

But Joe did not answer to this summons either, and when the door of his
room was opened, showing his undisturbed bed, and when a quick search
revealed that he had taken most of his belongings the deacon jumped to
the most natural conclusion.

“He’s gone, Abigail!” he cried. “Joe’s run away, and it was him that
robbed us and set fire to the place!”

“Oh, no, Deacon! _He_ wouldn’t do such a thing!”

“Woman, I tell you he did!” cried the deacon in his most thundering
tones. “He’s robbed us and run away! I’ll get the law after him! The
thief!” and with a face flushed with wrath the deacon proceeded to
dress, muttering the while:

“He robbed us! Joe robbed us and ran away! I always knew that the circus
and magician blood in him would tell! Now it’s come out with a
vengeance!”

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!”

CHAPTER XIII
JOE’S HELP NEEDED

Joe could hardly believe his good luck. When he decided to run away he
had no settled plans in mind. All he expected to do was to seek out
Professor Rosello, and ask him what would be the best means of starting
in on the chosen career. But to be engaged without any delay as an
assistant was beyond Joe’s wildest hopes.

It had come about by a curious trick of fate, and Joe was very much
pleased.

“Do you really mean it?” he asked the professor, as they stood on the
dimly lighted stage.

“Mean it? Of course I do. My assistant who was to help me with
to-night’s performance suddenly left, and I didn’t know what to do.

“As soon as I recognized you, I remembered that you had some knowledge
of our way of doing things. Then, too, as I told you before, you have in
you naturally, and because of practice, the makings of a magician. So I
think you can very easily fill the shoes of my late assistant. He was
clever, but not reliable. Of course I can not pay you much money. I will
begin on ten dollars a week, and I’ll pay all your expenses. Later on,
if you do well, as I’m sure you will, I’ll increase the amount, for you
may be able to help me do more elaborate tricks, and so we will draw
better houses. Does that satisfy you?”

“Indeed it does!” cried Joe.

This was luck in truth, for this, too, was more than he had hoped for.
He would have been glad to work with the professor to earn merely his
expenses for a while, until he learned something of the inside workings
of magic.

“Now,” said Professor Rosello, “we’ll have to do some quick work, Joe.
I’ll call you that, for I feel as if I had known you a long time. I’ll
never forget how you saved my life, and you will never want a friend as
long as I am alive. Where are you stopping?”

“No place, just at present,” replied Joe. “I came in on a freight train,
after I ran away from home, and I looked you up as soon as I could after
I had breakfast.”

Then Joe told the story of how he had left the home of his
foster-parents.

“You had better put up at my hotel,” said the professor. “I’m stopping
at a boarding house. It’s better for me than a regular hotel. I can get
you a room there. I had planned to give a three nights’ show here, but
when my assistant left I thought I’d have to cut it down to one. Now
I’ll go ahead as originally planned, thanks to you.

“Now suppose we just run over what I do in the evening’s performance, so
you’ll know what is expected of you.”

Professor Rosello hastily described to Joe the program—how he came out
on the stage, rolling in his hands a red handkerchief, which he caused
suddenly to vanish. Of course this was done by “palming.” While palming
the handkerchief, which thus seemed to vanish into air, the professor
would keep up a “patter,” or running line of talk, concerning the tricks
he was to show that night.

“Of course you know,” said the professor to Joe, “that we have to depend
on outside aid in doing what the public calls ‘tricks.’ That is, we have
as our three main helpers, the table, the wand and the clothes we wear.
I need not tell the son of Professor Morretti that the evening dress of
a modern magician has in it many hiding places—_pochettes_, the French
call them. They are secret pockets, placed where the performer finds he
has best use for them. Into these pockets a borrowed watch, ring,
handkerchief—anything not too large, in fact—may be concealed.

“Of course we bring the hidden things out at the proper time. But, as I
say, the dress of a magician is important. I haven’t time to get you
one, and my assistant took his away with him, so you won’t be able to do
much for me in that line.

“Another great aid to us is our wand. From time immemorial a wand has
been the symbol of magic. Ordinarily it is but a stick, a bit of ebony
or ivory, and of course with that it is not possible to do any tricks.
But the wand is valuable in that you can wave it in the air, or before a
person’s face. Naturally their eyes follow the motion of the wand, their
attention is taken from your other hand, in which you may have palmed,
or concealed, something. And while their eyes are thus off that hand you
can get rid of the palmed article, or put it in the place where you wish
it next to appear.”

“Yes, I have read of that in some books treating of magic,” said Joe.

“The books don’t tell you everything,” said the professor with a smile,
“but of course they are valuable. I want to tell you that nowadays we
have two wands, instead of one. One is an ordinary piece of ebony,
solid, and not prepared in any way. Then we have a combined hollow wand,
in one end of which is concealed a small pistol, so that by a mere
pressure on a spring, which is all but invisible, we can produce a shot.
On the other end of the wand is a concealed claw and spring, so that I
can draw into the hollow a silk handkerchief or light piece of cloth,
making it disappear before the very eyes of the audience. Of course the
substitution of the trick wand for the solid one must be made unseen by
the audience.”

“Yes, I should think so,” commented Joe.

“The tall hat is another great aid to us who work in magic,” went on the
professor. “But of late years it is hard to borrow one in an ordinary
audience, so I don’t often use it. Years ago, when more men wore tall,
silk hats, it was easy to borrow one from somebody in the audience, and
do all sorts of tricks with it—or, rather, with one of my own which I
substituted unseen. My hat, of course, was made for my purpose. It had
secret compartments in it and the lining being black, they did not show
when I held it up to show that, apparently, it was empty.

“I might state, Joe, that of course nothing ever comes out of a tall
hat, or any other kind of a hat, my own, or that of any one else, unless
it has first been put there. ‘Loaded’ is the term we use. That is to
say, I must first put into the hat a live rabbit, a cannon ball, a piece
of cheese, an egg—anything, in fact, that I wish to produce I must first
put in the prepared hat. Then I can bring it out.

“So much for the hat. Only, as I said, tall hats are rather hard to
borrow, so I often work with an ordinary derby, having one of my own
made with a secret compartment. Only it has to be small, as derbies
haven’t much spare space.”

“It would be great if we could work with a straw hat—especially if we
gave a show in summer!” exclaimed Joe.

“Why, it would, yes. I never thought of that!” exclaimed Professor
Rosello. “I believe we could have a trick straw hat made. Say, Joe, I’m
glad to see you taking an interest this way.”

“Oh, I’m going to be a magician!” cried the youth. “I want to find out
all I can about it.”

“It’s too bad your father didn’t live to tell you about his tricks,”
said the magician. “He was a real artist, while the most of us are but
imitators. However, it can’t be helped. I will teach you all I know if
you want to learn.”

“I surely do!” murmured the boy.

“Now to finish my little preliminary talk,” went on the sleight-of-hand
artist, “I will mention the table. That, or in fact several tables or
little stands, are of great aid to a magician. In the early days the
performers used a big table, all draped about with velvet, and concealed
under this velvet was an assistant.

“When the magician wanted to cause an object to disappear he would place
it on the table just over a hole, which was not in view because it was
hidden by a trap-door. Then he would put a hollow cone or hollow block
over the object, which would at once drop through the hole in the table,
into the hands of the concealed assistant.

“But as performers became more clever they used simpler tables. Some, of
course, seemed to be just spindle-legged affairs, but mirrors fitted in
made a place where objects could be concealed, though it seemed as
though the audience could look right through the legs of the table. But
there are some tables which are not at all mechanical, except that they
have a place at the back for a _servante_, or shelf, below the level of
the table, and on this shelf objects can be placed when the performer
has to get rid of them for the time being.”

“It sounds complicated,” murmured Joe.

“It’s simple when you understand it,” said the professor. “I sometimes
use as a _servante_ a little mesh bag, which I can fasten to the back of
a chair—that is if the back can’t be seen through. Then of course I have
little tables—_console_ tables they were called in the days of
Robert-Houdin.

“These tables stand close to the draperies which are back of the stage,
and above the tables is a slit cut in the curtain, the fall of the
draperies concealing it. Through this slit my assistant can thrust his
hand and take away or substitute certain articles. That will be part of
your work.

“So then, with the wand, with a suit having in it many secret pockets,
and with the help of a _servante_ in one form or another we do most of
our tricks, never forgetting that palming is one vital need. Of course I
have elaborate pieces of apparatus—that is elaborate for me, some
performers carry much more than I do. But the tendency in these days is
to get away from big mechanical effects, since the audience knows there
is some trick about them, even though it can’t be seen.

“Of course you know some of what I have told you, Joe, but I thought it
no harm to repeat it. Now I’ll give you a little drill, and we’ll be
ready for to-night.”

The professor told Joe the principal tricks he proposed performing that
night. In comparatively few of them was Joe’s aid needed, except that he
was to be on the stage to hand the professor articles when wanted, or to
remove them—passive sort of work.

But in one trick—that of making a young man disappear when seated in a
chair on the stage in full view of the audience—Joe took an active part.

Having gone over as much as he thought necessary, Professor Rosello took
Joe to the boarding house, where they would stay for at least three
nights. There, too, the magician gave Joe more instructions, and had him
practice some palming and card tricks. Joe was naturally good at these.

“I’m almost glad my regular assistant failed me,” the professor said,
“for I think you are going to be better, Joe. You have a natural
aptitude for learning this art.”

“I’m glad you think so,” remarked the youth, “for I want very much to
perfect myself in it.”

That afternoon Joe and the professor went through several tricks for
practice, taking care that no small boys or other unauthorized persons
were secretly in the theatre to see how the tricks were done, and so
reveal them.

The night of the performance came at last, and Joe went to the Opera
House with the professor. They went back on the stage to see that all
was in readiness for the curtain to rise.

“A good house,” remarked Professor Rosello, as he peered through the
peep-hole of the curtain. “We’ll make a little money to-night, Joe.”

“I’m glad of it. I wouldn’t want to bring you bad luck.”

“Oh, I think you’ll bring me good luck. Now we’re ready, I guess.”

The curtain went up, the professor came out, bowing and smiling and
making the handkerchief disappear by cleverly palming it, then slipping
it into one of his secret pockets, afterward seeming to draw it from the
end of his wand. To do this, of course, he merely palmed it again, and
let it gradually appear as he wished.

Then he did several stock tricks; one of them being the bringing forth
of a small jar of goldfish seemingly from a man’s derby hat.

There was no trick about the hat. The professor went down off the stage
and borrowed it, but, on his way back, while his back was toward the
audience, he slipped into the hat a flat dish filled with water and live
goldfish. This dish Joe had passed to him a moment before from behind
the scenes, through one of the slits in the curtain.

The professor concealed the flat jar of goldfish, water and all, under
his vest, but the dish had over it a tightly fitting cover, made of a
thin sheet of rubber.

As he walked back on to the stage Professor Rosello slipped the dish
into the hat, and, as he lifted it out, in full view of the audience,
he, unseen by the spectators, snapped off the rubber cover with his
thumb. Thus he seemed to bring out a jar of fish in real water, and
there was no doubt about the realness of the water, nor the life of the
fish. They could be seen swimming about, and the professor dipped his
hand in the water, sprinkling it about the stage. Then he passed the hat
back to the man.

The goldfish had been purchased in a store that day, and kept in water
until needed, Joe putting them in the flat dish, and slipping over the
rubber cover just before they were to be used.

“Now for my next trick,” began Professor Rosello, “I shall want to
borrow a boy or young man. I don’t want one who has any friends, as I am
going to cause him to disappear, and of course no one wants that to
happen to a friend. I am going to make him totally disappear. Who will
lend me a young man for that purpose?

“Come now,” he went on, as there was a pause. “I see several young
ladies here with young men. Surely one of them can be spared. No? No one
will volunteer?”

There were smiles and some laughter.

“I see a nice young man right here,” the professor said, coming down the
steps, and standing close to a young girl and her escort. He laid his
hand on the youth’s shoulder.

“You haven’t any use for him, have you?” he asked the blushing girl.
“May I not make him disappear?”

“No!” she laughed.

“Very well, then I must find some one else.”

There was a movement in the back of the house as if some one intended to
volunteer, but, as the professor did not want this, he forestalled it by
quickly saying:

“Never mind. I see you are all afraid. Well, I will call on my young
assistant. He is not of much use to me, or to the world either, so I
will make him disappear.”

This was Joe’s signal to come forward for one of the more elaborate
tricks.

CHAPTER XIV
JOE’S DISAPPEARANCE

“You’re not afraid to be made to vanish into thin air, are you?” asked
Professor Rosello of Joe, that being part of the “patter” of this trick.
“You don’t mind being made to vanish?”

“No,” answered Joe, “not if it doesn’t hurt.” The audience laughed. Joe
was getting on surprisingly well. He had feared he would be stricken
with stage fright on this, his first appearance in public. But there was
not the least sign of it, though there was a packed house. One reason
was that, of course, the magician occupied the center of the stage most
of the time, and all eyes were focused on him. Joe had only a minor part
as yet.

But, also, there must have been something inherited by him from his
parents, who fairly lived in the public eye. Joe took to it naturally.

“You see he doesn’t mind in the least,” the professor said to the
audience. “He’ll never be missed, and if I used some boy from the
audience this might not be the case.”

“For this trick,” went on the professor, “I need a young man. I have
this—er—useless specimen——” and he tapped Joe on the shoulder. There was
more laughter from the audience. “I also need,” proceeded Professor
Rosello, “a chair, a sheet and a piece of paper. They are here,” and he
brought forward a chair, a black cloth and a sheet of a newspaper.
“There is nothing extraordinary about any of these articles except about
my young assistant. And he will feel most extraordinary when he starts
to vanish into thin air.

“The paper, as you can see, is the front page of your local publication,
_The Herald_,” and the performer held up a sheet of paper. Every one in
the audience could see that it was what it purported to be—at least on
one side, and that was the only side held up to the crowd in the Opera
House.

“This sheet of paper I will place on the stage,” went on the professor,
and he suited the action to the words. “On top of the paper I will place
this chair, on which my young assistant is going to sit,” and seemingly
without any special preparation the magician set the chair on the paper,
one leg being near each of the four corners of the sheet.

“Now if you will kindly take your seat in the chair, we shall proceed,”
said Mr. Crabb, otherwise Professor Rosello. Joe sat down, his heart
beating a little faster than usual, for he wanted the trick to work
perfectly, and much depended on him.

“Good-bye,” said the professor with mock solicitude, as he shook hands
with Joe. “This is the last we shall see of you,” and he pretended to be
distressed. Several boys in the gallery shouted their farewells to Joe
in laughing tones. He waved his hands to the audience, which was
curiously expectant.

“I will now cover my assistant, chair and all with this sheet,” said the
professor. “I do that because the disappearance of a person sometimes is
attended by painful scenes, and I do not wish to make you suffer. This
sheet was once white,” he went on, as he shook out a black cloth,
turning it about so that both sides could be seen. There was nothing
tricky about that, it was evident.

“It used to be white, but in traveling about the sheet lost its original
color, and, as I do not carry a laundress with me, it has never been
washed.”

As a matter of fact the cloth had always been black. It had to be, so
the audience could not see through it to witness the details of the
trick.

“I will now cover my assistant in the chair with this white-black
sheet,” continued Professor Rosello, “and when I raise it he will
be—gone!”

He draped the cloth over Joe’s head and shoulders, letting it fall to
the floor of the stage on all sides of the chair. He then took up his
“pistol” wand, which fired a blank shot.

“Are you ready?” he called to Joe, after a dramatic pause.

“Ready,” was the muffled reply.

“Then go!” cried the professor. He pointed his wand at the covered
chair, there was a loud report, and a moment later, when the professor
whisked the black sheet off the chair was empty. The professor lifted
the sheet of paper from under the chair. Apparently there was not a
break in it.

There was a gasp of astonishment from the crowd.

“You see,” said the professor, bowing and smiling when the applause had
subsided, “he has disappeared—vanished into thin air. I am glad it
happened to none of you, though of course I might be able to reincarnate
you again, as——”

He appeared greatly astonished at the sight of some one in the back of
the theatre.

“Why, look who’s here!” he cried, pointing with his wand. “My young
assistant has not waited for me to call him back to life. He came of
himself.”

The audience turned to behold Joe calmly walking down the middle aisle,
and up the stage by means of the temporary steps which the professor
used to descend and ascend.

There was more applause at Joe’s unexpected appearance in this fashion,
and the trick made a big hit.

And now to let you into the secret.

The trick consisted of several parts. A trap-door was in the stage
through which Joe could disappear. This trap, directly under the chair
and paper, was operated by a theatre employee, who of course would not
tell, at least beforehand, how the trick was done. After Joe had gone
down through the trap, into the room that exists under all theatrical
stages, it was an easy matter for him to slip out through the stage
door, run around an alley, and enter the front of the theatre, to walk
calmly down the aisle.

But how could he disappear through the seat of the chair, and through
the sheet of paper, without making a break, at least in the paper?

There was a trick about the paper, although it seemed to be perfectly
ordinary. It was a sheet from the local paper, but it had been prepared
in advance by the professor. On the back was pasted a square of
cardboard, a quarter of an inch smaller each way than the trap-door in
the stage. This paper trap, for such it was, was divided in the middle,
the two flaps being hinged to the sheet of newspaper. The reason the
cardboard did not show when held up to the audience was that the whole
sheet of newspaper was double, one half being folded over the cardboard
trap.

When Professor Rosello laid the paper down in the stage he was guided by
certain small marks, so that it went exactly over the trap in the floor.
This trap was hinged at the back, opening downward, but kept in place
when not in use by a strong iron bar underneath. Next he placed the
chair over the piece of paper, the legs going into exact positions
previously marked on the paper, but the marks were too small to be seen
by the audience.

The object in placing the paper on the stage was to get the audience to
believe that there was no hole in the wooden floor through which Joe
could disappear, it being the natural inference that such was the method
used. But when the crowd saw what they thought was the unbroken sheet of
paper, they would not suppose Joe had gone down through that, as he
really had.

The chair was also a trick one. The seat of it was on hidden hinges so
it could be lifted up and folded back. There were also secret springs on
it which, when released, shot out and extended certain thin steel
projections, which distended the black sheet into such shape that they
made the rough outline of a person sitting on the chair.

When Joe took his seat on the chair, under cover of the black cloth, he
pressed the secret springs, and a ring appeared above his head to
support the black cloth, exactly as if it were supported by his head.
Other projections appeared at his knees, and as the bottom of the cloth
was arranged by the professor some distance away from the legs of the
chair, Joe was as if he were under a sort of tent, held out and away
from him, so he could move about a little without being seen.

As soon as he was covered, and had worked the secret springs, he lifted
up the false seat of the chair, supporting himself by his hands on the
framework, into which the seat fitted.

This seat Joe carefully folded back, taking care to make no noise and
not to disturb the black cloth all around him. Meanwhile the professor
had with his foot given a rap on the floor of the stage. This was a
signal to the man below to open the trap in the floor.

Joe, hidden under the black cloth, felt for the opening in the floor
with his feet. A stepladder was hurriedly put into place by the
stage-hand, and Joe lowered himself down through the chair, the prepared
hole in the paper and the hole cut in the stage, to the ladder.

The ladder was quickly taken away, the stage-hand reached up and lowered
the seat of the chair back in place. Also, when this had been done he
closed the trap-door in the stage, and the newspaper with its trap was
in place above it, seemingly unbroken.

Then the professor fired the shot and whisked off the black cloth, as he
did so touching the secret springs, so that the projections snapped back
out of sight, and when the cloth was lifted off the chair looked as it
did at first, only Joe was not on it.

Then he came running down the aisle, and persons who suspected that he
had gone down through the stage did not know what to make of the piece
of newspaper. It did not fit their theory.

That paper, appeared to be an ordinary sheet, and no one, or at least
very few, would have thought of a trap being cut in that.

And thus was the “disappearing” trick worked.

“Very good! You did splendidly!” said the professor in a low voice as
Joe came up on the stage. “It went off to perfection!”

After Joe made his bow in acknowledgment of the applause he received for
his part in the trick, he prepared for the next “experiment,” as the
professor often called his acts.

That first night of Joe’s assistance went off well, a number of acts
being done after the “disappearance,” all being well received.

“A very satisfactory evening,” remarked Professor Rosello, as he and Joe
went to their boarding house, after having put away their apparatus. “I
hope we shall do as well the two remaining nights.”

“So do I,” agreed Joe.

He was very tired, for he had not rested well in the freight car, but a
good night’s sleep made him feel like a new person.

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.

CHAPTER XVI
THE SMASHED WATCH

Even larger crowds than attended on the first evening, greeted Joe
Strong and Professor Rosello at the two following performances. The
wonder of the disappearing trick, as well as the marvels of others, had
been well spread throughout Lorilard by the small boys, and by grown
persons as well, and many bought tickets determined to “see how it was
done.”

But the stage-hand who let Joe down through the trap in the floor kept
his own counsel, and though many persons said they were sure they knew
how the feat was performed and that Joe _must_ go down through the
stage, since it was obvious he did not go up in the air, still they
could not understand how the piece of paper was not broken.

“Well, you certainly brought me good luck,” said the professor to Joe at
the conclusion of the third night’s performance. “We took in good money.
You have more than earned your salary.”

“I’m glad to know that,” answered Joe, much gratified. “Do you think I
shall succeed as a magician?”

“I’m sure of it! You learn quickly, and you have natural and inherited
ability. Practice will make you perfect. I will help you all I can.”

Joe had worked much more smoothly the third night than on either of the
two previous ones. The “disappearance” trick had gone off well, and the
professor had let Joe do one or two simple mystification acts himself.

“As we go along I will gradually let you do more and more on the stage,”
said Professor Rosello, “until you get so you can sometimes take my
place.”

“You are very kind,” returned Joe.

“I should think I ought to be,” the magician went on. “I owe my life to
you, and it will take a good while to pay that debt.”

During the next few weeks Joe traveled about from town to town with
Professor Rosello, helping him in many ways aside from on the stage. For
there were many details to look after in hiring theatres, sending on
posters in advance, transporting the baggage and so on.

Joe’s work was so successful, and his working of what tricks he did so
smooth, that Professor Rosello let him take a certain specified part in
the performances now.

“We’ll add some new tricks, too,” said the magician. “I can afford to do
that now, as we are taking in a good deal of money.”

So some new apparatus was bought, and a young man, or rather an
overgrown boy, hired to relieve Joe of some of the detail work. Thus Joe
could devote more time to the tricks and to practice. The professor’s
“show” was not a large one, and he did not play in the big cities, or,
if he did, it was in the small theatres or in halls. But Joe was in good
company, and he was getting valuable experience. He often wondered what
was going on in Bedford, and whether his disappearance had caused any
stir.

It had. The robbery at the deacon’s house became known, and also the
fact of the accusation against Joe, who was being sought by the police.

“Well, Joe may have run away, because he couldn’t stand it any longer,”
said Tom Simpson, when he found his suit of clothes and the note the
morning after Joe had left them on the door-step. “Joe Strong may have
run away, but he never stole!”

“That’s right!” agreed his other chums.

But of all this Joe knew nothing.

The young wizard, which he was rapidly becoming in earnest, kept at his
chosen work. He practiced sleight-of-hand at every opportunity. Nor did
he neglect his physical welfare. In many of the places he visited there
were Y. M. C. A. gymnasiums, and there Joe paid a small fee for the
privilege of using the trapeze or the bars. This he did during the day,
while waiting for the night’s performance. He would end his exercise
with a shower bath, and be in fine trim for the evening’s work. He did
the disappearing trick every night of the show, and it always went well.

Joe also did considerable studying, for the professor had a number of
books on magic. And one evening after a successful performance Joe
approached Professor Rosello, and said:

“I think I have invented a new trick.”

“Good!” exclaimed the professor. “Let’s hear about it.”

“I say _think_,” Joe reminded him, “for, though I haven’t seen you do
it, you may know about it.”

He then described the feat, explaining what apparatus would be necessary
to have it properly worked.

“Say, that’s a good one!” cried Professor Rosello. “It’s great, Joe! And
I’ll let you do it yourself, as is your right. I’ll order what you want,
and you can practice it, for remember this: a new trick requires lots of
practice to make it run smoothly. There’s nothing worse for a magician’s
reputation than to have a slip-up when he is working a piece of magic.
So practice the new trick well.”

Joe promised that he would, and when the three simple pieces of
apparatus were received he devoted much time to perfecting the details
of his little bit of mysticism.

The evening came on which Joe was to do his new trick. The ones the
professor did were successfully worked, and while Mr. Crabb went behind
the scenes to “load” himself for his next act, Joe stepped forward, and,
addressing the audience, said:

“For this trick I should like to borrow a gold gentleman’s watch—I
should say a gentleman’s gold watch.” The audience laughed at his
pretended slip, and this is always a good beginning. There was a
moment’s hesitation, and Joe added: “I will return it safely. Come now,
can’t I get one gold watch from some one in this large and
intelligent-looking audience? Ah, thank you, here is a trusting
gentleman,” and he accepted a gold watch which a man in the front row
held up. He was not a confederate. Joe had never seen him before, but he
took this watch because it was an open-faced one, of just the size he
wanted.

“Now before I go on with this trick,” resumed Joe, as he took his place
in the center of the stage, “I will, for safe keeping, place the watch
in this paper bag.” He held up what seemed to be an ordinary paper bag
such as grocers use. The watch went into it, and Joe then twisted the
bag up around the watch, the paper assuming a circular form the shape of
the watch being plainly visible.

“I’ll just lay the watch, in the bag, on the floor here for a moment,”
the young wizard went on. “It will be perfectly safe, I’m sure. I just
want to ask a few questions of the owner.”

Joe then went through some “patter” improvised for the occasion, asking
the man who had lent him the watch, how long he had had it, whether it
kept good time, if it were valuable, and so on.

In the midst of this talk Joe walked about, and then, seemingly by
accident, he stepped on the paper bag. There was an instant crunch as if
of a broken crystal, and a gasp came from the audience. The man who
owned the watch looked rather startled.

“Dear me! This is quite too bad!” exclaimed Joe, stooping to pick up the
paper bag and the stepped-on watch. “I am very sorry, sir, but you know
accidents will happen. You should have warned me that I was going to
step on your watch, my dear sir.”

“I—I—you——” began the man, rather red in the face.

“Keep still!” his wife cautioned him. “It’s only a trick, you know.”

The man became silent, but wore a worried look.

“Well, let us see just how bad the damage is,” Joe went on. He took the
watch from the bag and held it up. The crystal was cracked in all
directions, and a slight pressure from Joe’s thumb sent it into
fragments of glass.

“Oh, dear! Worse and worse!” Joe exclaimed. “Well, since I have broken
this much of the watch, I might as well finish it. I’ll put it in this
mortar,” and he brought forward a small wooden one, shaped as all
druggists’ mortars are.

“There’s nothing in it, you see,” he went on holding it so the audience
could look into the interior. “Quite empty,” and Joe rattled his wand
inside. “So it can’t hurt your watch to go in there.” He shook the
fragments of glass on the now smoothed-out paper bag, and carefully
lowered the watch, with its back toward the audience, into the mortar.

“Now we’ll see what we can do,” Joe went on, taking up the pestle. This,
as you know, is the object with which a druggist grinds up in the mortar
any medicine requiring crushing.

“We’ll make a thorough job of this while we’re at it,” Joe went on, as
he proceeded to grind away with the pestle on the bottom of the mortar.

“Come! This is too slow. I shall have to use something heavier, I think,
to make mince-meat of this watch. It is a very tough one. I’ll use this
poker,” and he picked up an iron one, laying aside the pestle on a
table. With the poker Joe jabbed away at the bottom of the mortar,
wherein, a few moments previous, the audience had seen him place the
watch.

A rattling, grinding sound was heard, a clink of metal, and Joe
exclaimed:

“Ah, now we are getting on famously! You will hardly know your watch
again, my dear sir. It is all in pieces.”

The man did not seem to know whether to look amused or angry.

“There we are!” Joe exclaimed, as he held the mortar slantingly so the
audience could look inside. They, as well as the gentleman who had lent
the watch, saw the crushed and bent wheels, springs and pinions of a
watch, all massed together.

“Well, I couldn’t do much worse to your watch. I think you’ll agree to
that, my dear sir?” said Joe to the man.

“That’s right,” he admitted, rather ruefully.

“And now to try what a little magic will do,” said Joe. “Since I have
destroyed your watch, I’ll do my best to restore it.”

He poured from the mortar the fragments of a watch, putting them on the
paper bag together with the pieces of glass. He then wadded them all up
together, and crammed them into the mouth of a large, old-fashioned
pistol.

“Now watch me closely,” Joe said.

And one may well believe the audience, as well as the man who owned the
watch, did watch.

CHAPTER XVII
JOE LEARNS SOMETHING

The young wizard made a few “magical” passes in the air over the pistol
he held up in front of the audience, which was now keyed up to a point
of nervous anticipation. The man whose watch had been borrowed was half
out of his seat. He seemed about to protest against the liberties being
taken with his property, but his wife, cooler headed than he, whispered
to him:

“It’s all right. You’ll get your watch back.”

“But how can I when he——”

“Hush!” she cautioned him.

“If agreeable to you,” went on Joe, smiling, “I will fire the fragments
of the watch from this pistol, and cause it to appear, whole, reunited
and undamaged, in that flower.”

As he spoke he aimed the pistol at a small, potted, flowering plant on a
table at the back of the stage.

“I’ll cause the watch to appear hanging from a pink ribbon among the
roots of that plant. And here is the ribbon I will use,” and Joe rammed
down the barrel of the pistol a small length of silk ribbon which he
picked up from a table near him.

He aimed his weapon at the plant and fired. There was the usual jumping
and screaming from some of the women in the audience, as Joe walked over
to the plant. In plain view of the audience he lifted it, roots, earth
and all from the pot, and there, as he had said, dangling from a pink
ribbon, was a watch.

“I believe this is your property, sir,” he said to the man who had lent
the timepiece, and Joe detached it, ribbon and all, from a short branch
of the plant over which the ribbon was looped.

“Is it your watch?” Joe asked.

“Why—er—yes, it is! But I don’t see how in the world you made it whole
again.”

“That’s one of the secrets of magic,” returned Joe, smiling, and bowing
to the applause that followed. His trick had been a great success, as he
had hoped.

Professor Rosello now came on the stage to work one of his feats, and
Joe retired to get ready for his part in it. And while he is doing that
the explanation of the watch trick will be given.

It stands to reason that no one can take a perfectly good watch, step on
it, break the crystal, beat it to pieces, ram it into a pistol and by
firing it at a plant cause the timepiece to appear whole again among the
roots. This is how it is done.

In the first place Joe had provided himself with the following articles
for his trick: A paper bag, ordinary, except that inside it were some
small lumps of hard sugar, held from rattling about by small strips of
paper pasted over them. Also on one side of the bag was pasted a
triangular piece of paper forming a sort of pocket, which was not
visible when the bag was quickly held up in front of the audience. In a
secret pocket of his suit Joe had a watch crystal which had been scored
in crisscross fashion by a diamond, so that it appeared to be cracked in
every direction. The cuts made by the diamond were so deep in the glass
that a slight pressure would cause the crystal to break into scores of
pieces.

The other piece of apparatus was a trick mortar and pestle. The mortar
had a false inside bottom which fitted closely but not too tightly.
Below this bottom Joe had placed, beforehand, the fragments of a cheap
watch—wheels, springs and so on.

The pestle was also a trick one. In the large end there was a hollow,
large enough to hold a watch, and the opening was closed by a piece of
wood exactly the same shape and size as the false inside bottom of the
mortar. The end of the pestle and the bottom of the mortar were
interchangeable.

The pistol Joe used was the regular stage kind. That is it had two
barrels. Into the larger the objects, in this case the fragments of a
watch, were placed. The other barrel fired a light charge of powder.

The flowering plant was a real one—there was no trick about that except
that the earth around the roots had been previously made loose, so it
would pull up easily.

Joe, with all these things, was ready for his trick. He borrowed the
watch and placed it in the paper bag.

That is, he seemed to do so, but, in reality, he slipped it into the
little outside triangular pocket he had pasted there for it. He could
now hold the bag up, with the side containing the watch away from the
audience, and, as he showed both hands empty, every one thought the
watch was in the bag. It was, in a sense.

Joe then twisted the bag up, making it conform to the shape of the
watch, and when this point was reached he quietly slipped the watch out
from the pocket into his hand, cleverly “palming” the timepiece. With
the watch safe in his hand, he laid the bag on the floor of the stage.
The paper still retaining its round shape, and no one suspected that the
watch was not in it.

Then Joe stepped on the paper bag. Of course it sounded as if he had
broken the watch crystal, but, in reality, what the audience heard was
the crunching of the lumps of sugar.

Joe pretended to be much exercised as he picked up the bag, and as he
did this, he slipped the watch into his secret pocket, and managed to
put over its glass face the crystal he had previously prepared by
scoring and criss-crossing with the diamond. When this was done Joe
again palmed the real watch, but now it had over its face a glass that
seemed to be cracked in all directions.

Reaching his hand, in which the watch was palmed, inside the bag, Joe
seemingly brought out the cracked watch. Again he manifested much
concern, and more so when a pressure of his thumb really broke the
prepared glass.

Then he was ready for the mortar and pestle part of the trick. He put
the fragments of glass on the paper bag, and lowered the watch, with its
back toward the audience, into the pestle. This was done so that no one
would see that the crystal was still whole and uncracked, which was the
case.

The real watch was now in the mortar, but it did not actually rest on
the bottom. Instead it rested on the false piece of wood, and beneath
this wood, in a hollowed-out place, were the pieces of a cheap watch.

As Joe looked down into the pestle, as though to see that the watch was
all ready to be pounded up, he “palmed” off the false head of the
pestle. This left that instrument with a hollow head, inside which would
fit the real watch, to be concealed from view by the loose false bottom
of the mortar, when the pestle was lifted.

Joe now put the pestle into the mortar, slipping the opening in the
pestle over the watch and false bottom, and by a slight rotary motion
causing the false bottom of the mortar to fit itself into the pestle and
stick there. The real watch was now concealed in the hollow head of the
pestle, while the fragments of the cheap watch were exposed in the
bottom of the mortar.

Joe now pretended that the pestle was not strong enough to smash up the
watch as he wanted it, and used a poker. He laid the pestle on the
table, which was a signal for the boy assistant to take it out behind
the scenes. And while he had the pestle there the boy took out the real
watch, quickly tied a pink ribbon through the ring, and then, going to
one of the curtains, in which was a slit, he reached through this slit
and suspended the ribbon on a short branch of the flower, letting it
hang down out of sight behind the pot. Of course the audience did not
see this, for the folds of the curtain concealed the slit. Besides, all
eyes were on Joe.

The young wizard had now gotten the real watch just where he wanted it,
on the plant, where he could “produce” it whenever he wanted to. But the
trick was not yet finished. Joe ground away with the poker at the pieces
of the cheap watch already in the pestle. He then showed the pieces to
the audience, poured them out on the paper bag, where the pieces of
glass already were. The whole was then wadded up, put into the trick
pistol, and the rest was a mere matter of detail. Joe walked over,
picked up the pot, pulled the plant up by the roots, the watch of course
seeming to have been down in the dirt. And, naturally, the watch was not
in the least damaged, though it seemed to have gone through all sorts of
misfortunes.

The real secret of the trick, aside from the sleight-of-hand work
necessary, lay in the prepared paper bag and the mortar and pestle,
which were made for just such mystification as this.

“It went very well, Joe,” said the professor, at the conclusion of the
performance. “That little piece of ribbon added to it.” For Joe had
thought to put into the pistol a bit of ribbon such as that by which the
watch was suspended. Otherwise he could not have accounted for the piece
on the ring of the watch.

“Do you think they liked it?” Joe asked.

“I’m sure they did. You may do that trick at each place where we
perform. And if you can work up any new ones, do so.”

“I will!” promised Joe, much delighted with his progress.

Inventing new tricks is not as easy as might be supposed, and for the
next few days Joe suggested feats to Professor Rosello only to have them
refused as not being effective enough or as too old. But Joe was not
discouraged.

At a performance one night in the town of Cardiff, Joe had occasion to
walk down among the audience to exhibit some pieces of apparatus, to
show that there was nothing concealed about it. As he passed one row of
seats he was surprised to hear a boyish voice say:

“Hello, Joe!”

He looked around and saw Harry Martin, one of his chums from Bedford.

“Why, hello, Harry!” Joe ejaculated. “What in the world are you doing
here?”

“I’m visiting my uncle who lives here. But I never expected to see you
in a show like this. I never was so surprised as when you came out on
the stage. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“Oh, I’ve been with the professor some time,” said Joe quickly. “Ever
since I—er—I came away from home. But come back of the scenes after the
show, Harry. I’d like to have a talk with you.”

“And I with you, Joe. I want to tell you I don’t believe what they are
saying about you, either.”

“Saying about me, Harry?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you later.”

Joe was puzzled as he went on with the trick, and he eagerly awaited the
advent of his chum behind the scenes after the show was over.

“What is it they’re saying about me, Harry?” asked the young wizard. “Do
they blame me for leaving a home I couldn’t stand any longer?”

“Not that so much, Joe. But don’t you know you are accused of robbing
Deacon Blackford and setting fire to his place?”

“What?” cried Joe. “You don’t mean that!”

“Yes I do,” said Harry. “I mean that’s what you’re accused of, but I
don’t believe it!”

Joe sank into a chair.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE MAGIC EGG

“Don’t take it so to heart, Joe,” begged Harry, after a moment’s pause.
“I didn’t mean to spring it on you this way. I thought maybe you knew
something about it.”

“I didn’t know a thing!” exclaimed Joe. Professor Rosello and the boy
helper were busy putting away their apparatus, so Joe and Harry could
talk together for a time. “How did they come to accuse me?” Joe asked,
after a pause.

“Well, you ran away, you know,” began Harry. “Of course that wasn’t so
bad, considering what you had to put up with. And the same night you
went off, the deacon was robbed.”

“Of much?”

“To hear him tell it you’d think it was. About a hundred dollars of his
money and nearly forty dollars of his wife’s.”

“She kept hers in the clock and his was in the desk,” said Joe.

“Better not let any one else hear you say that,” Harry cautioned him.

“Why not?”

“Because they’ll only be more suspicious of you, seeing you knew where
the money was kept.”

“Oh, that isn’t anything. I couldn’t very well help knowing, being in
the house all the while. But was anything else taken?”

“Yes, some valuable papers.”

“And what about a fire?” asked Joe.

“Well, the deacon says he heard a noise, got up to see what it was, and
saw some one getting out of the window near his desk. Whoever it was
kicked over the lamp, which exploded. The deacon says he knows you
didn’t mean to start the fire.”

“What made him think it was I getting out the window?”

“He didn’t—that is, not at the time. But when he went to call you, and
found you weren’t in your room, then he jumped to the conclusion that
you had taken the money and papers and climbed out of the window.”

“I didn’t do either,” Joe said. “I went out the door in a hurry when I
heard the deacon after me. That is, I thought I heard him. I’m beginning
to believe now it was the noise made by the real burglars that
frightened me. But is that all the evidence they have against me?”

“No, Hen Sylvester and Tim Donovan saw you running away in the middle of
the night, and jump the midnight freight. They chased after you and
fired some shots, but you wouldn’t stop.”

“By Jove! That’s right!” cried Joe. “That _will_ look suspicious.”

“Then you _did_ run away from them?” asked Harry.

“Yes, but not because I had robbed the deacon. I was late for the
freight. You see it pulled out earlier than usual because there wasn’t
so much of the fireworks to load, on account of the fire. I didn’t want
to miss it, and I ran. I wouldn’t stop when the constables called to me.
Yes, that sure will look suspicious;” and Joe shook his head.

“But we don’t believe you did it,” said Harry. “Tom, Charlie, Henry and
I will stick to you, Joe.”

“Thanks. Did Tom get his suit all right?”

“Oh, yes. But I sure was surprised when I saw you come out on the stage
to-night. We hadn’t any idea where you’d gone, though Deacon Blackford
said he guessed you’d join some circus.”

“This isn’t quite a circus,” said Joe. “But I like it,” and then he told
his chum his experiences since joining his fortunes with those of
Professor Rosello.

“Say, it’s great!” cried Harry, with sparkling eyes. “I wish I were a
magician.”

“Oh, I’m not one yet,” replied Joe. “It takes a lot more experience than
I’ve had. But I’m learning. How did you like the show?”

“Fine! That watch trick of yours was a dandy. You didn’t really smash
the watch and put it together again, did you, Joe?”

“Of course not. There was a trick about it, but I don’t feel at liberty
to tell you how it’s done. You see the trick, in a way, belongs to
Professor Rosello.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to tell me. It would spoil it for me when I saw it
again. I’m coming to-morrow night.”

“Come on,” urged Joe. “Here, I’ll write you out a pass. It isn’t often I
get a chance to do that for a friend.”

They were showing two nights in this particular town, and Professor
Rosello gladly allowed Joe to give Harry a free ticket.

“Say, you’re sure making out better than you ever would in Bedford,
Joe,” commented his chum, as they parted that evening.

“Yes, I couldn’t stand it there. The deacon wasn’t fair to me.”

“Well, we boys miss you,” Harry said.

“Give ’em my regards when you go back,” Joe suggested, “and tell the
deacon I never took his money.”

“I sure will, Joe.”

A few nights later, Joe, in his capacity as assistant, was helping the
professor, who was doing an egg trick—balancing the egg on the end of a
straw. The straws were genuine ones, as were the eggs. The secret lay in
a little piece of apparatus, so small as to be readily palmed almost
before the very eyes of the audience. It consisted of a little celluloid
cup, so shallow as to be almost flat, but concave enough to hold the end
of an egg. There was a little stem, half an inch long, on the lower side
of this celluloid cup.

After the professor had invited some one in the audience to make an egg
stand up on end on the point of a straw, which the person, of course,
could not do, the professor did it himself, deftly slipping the
projection of the celluloid cup into the hollow of the straw. The egg
then stood up in the little piece of celluloid, which, being the exact
color of an egg and as thin as the shell, was never noticed.

As Joe watched this familiar trick being done, there came into his mind
the idea for another one, even more simple, and requiring no apparatus
whatever except an ordinary glass jar. He spoke to the professor about
it the next day, and was given permission to work it.

Just before he “put on” his watch trick the next night, Joe announced
that he would try a little experiment with an egg.

“You all know that a perfectly fresh egg will sink in water,” he said.
“In fact, that is a test for a fresh egg. Now I have here three
perfectly good and fresh eggs. I know they are fresh because I bought
them this afternoon from your popular grocer, Mr. McCabe, and he told me
he never sold any _but_ fresh eggs.”

There was a laugh at this, and every one turned to look at the grocer,
who was in the audience, a fact that Joe knew, for he had really
purchased the eggs at the grocery. Thus he had his audience with him at
the start, a reference to a local personage from the stage by a
traveling performer invariably producing an effect.

“Now as you all know,” Joe went on, “a fresh egg sinks in water. You can
prove it at home, and I’ll prove it here for you. Just pick out any one
of these eggs,” he said, and, extending them on a plate to a woman in
the audience, he took from her the egg she picked up.

“The lady looks like a good cook, she ought to know good eggs,” said
Joe, and again there was a laugh.

“Now I’ll just put this egg in this jar of water,” went on the young
magician; “but instead of sinking, when I speak the magic word, it will
remain floating half-way between the top of the water and the bottom of
the jar. Now watch me closely.”

Joe gently lowered the egg into the jar of water that stood on a table
near him. Slowly the egg settled through the limpid fluid.

“By the magic of this wand, I command you to stop!” cried Joe, as the
egg was half-way down, and as he waved his stick the egg did stop
midway.

“You see how easy it is,” the young performer continued. “I did not
touch the egg after I placed it in the water, nor did I approach the
glass jar. You may examine both in a moment. I will now dissolve the
magic spell I have cast about the egg. With my wand I make some
passes—so——”

Joe put his wand into the water and stirred it about the egg, but did
not touch it. In a second the egg slowly sank to the bottom of the jar,
to the mystification of the audience.

“You may think there is some trick about it,” said Joe. “But any one of
you is at liberty to try and make the egg halt half-way down, as I did.
Will you try it?” he said to the woman who had picked out the egg.

She blushed and shook her head.

“Then you, please,” and Joe indicated a young man, who, sheepishly
enough, came up on the stage. Joe handed him the jar of water, the young
man reached down into it, got the egg and put it in the jar as Joe had
done. But the egg at once sank to the bottom, and though the young man
tried again, he had no success.

“You see, it’s magic,” laughed Joe, as he made ready for his smashed
watch trick.

CHAPTER XIX
THE CIRCUS

And now for the explanation of the egg trick. It is so simple that any
of you may do it at home, with just an ordinary egg, a fruit jar and
some salt. Don’t forget the salt.

You have all heard the story, told to children, about putting salt on a
bird’s tail in order to tame it. Well, a fresh egg that one wishes to
make float half-way submerged in a jar of water, must be treated in the
same way. It must be salted.

Just as Joe said, a fresh egg will sink in water. But it will float in
strong brine, or salt water, the reason being that salt water is denser,
and has a greater specific gravity, than fresh water.

But the trick lies in combining fresh and salt water so that the egg
will sink only half-way.

Make a strong brine solution by dissolving common table salt in water.
It may be necessary to experiment a little before getting the solution
just the right strength. Fill a glass fruit jar, or any jar with a wide
opening, half full of the brine. Now, with a funnel, pour fresh water in
on top of the salt water. Be careful not to let the two kinds of water
mix. The salt water, being heavier, will be on the bottom of the jar,
and the fresh, being lighter, on top. If you do it carefully enough,
pouring in a little fresh water at a time, you will have, as Joe had, a
jar with two layers of different kinds of water—one salt, the other
fresh. The audience, of course, can not see this, as they could if you
had two differently colored fluids, for the salt and fresh water are of
the same color.

When Joe put the egg in the water he lowered it carefully, so as not to
disturb the two water layers. The egg sank through the strata of fresh
water, but when it came to the layer of dense, salt water, it would not
sink in that, and came to a stop, half-way down, just as Joe, who knew
at what point this would occur, uttered the command to stop.

And when Joe pretended, to dissolve the “spell,” he merely, with his
wand, stirred together the fresh and salt water. This made a mixture of
salt water, but it was not dense, or heavy, enough to support the egg,
which of course sank to the bottom.

And, as the waters were well mixed when Joe let the young man try the
experiment, of course the latter could not make the egg float as the boy
wizard had done.

“That was a good trick, Joe,” was the professor’s compliment when Joe
came off the stage. “In fact I think the simpler the trick is, the
better, but there are very few that can be worked with so little
apparatus as your egg experiment. We’ll keep that on our list.”

Joe had told his employer about the news brought by Harry, to the effect
that our hero was accused of robbery by his foster-parent.

“What are you going to do about it, Joe?” asked the professor.

“I don’t see that I can do anything. I didn’t take a dollar of his
money, or Mrs. Blackford’s either, nor did I touch the valuable papers.
It’s all a mistake, but I’m not going back there to tell him so. I sent
word by Harry. If he won’t believe him, he won’t believe me.”

“No, perhaps not. And, as you say, you can’t go back there just to
convince your foster-father. You don’t think, do you, that he will make
trouble for you?”

“I don’t imagine so.”

When Joe said this he knew nothing of the warrant having been sworn out
for his arrest. Harry had not told his chum of this detail.

“Then I don’t see that you need do anything,” said Mr. Crabb. “I,
myself, don’t believe the accusation against you. And until you are put
to some real trouble over it you may as well ignore it. We’ll just go on
as usual. You are doing well, and our show is succeeding better than I
hoped for. I am glad you came to me.”

Joe was grateful for this trust, and resolved to do his best in his
future work. He worked up several new and simple tricks, many of them,
such as dancing cards, the nodding skull and others, being adaptations
from other stage illusions.

You have, most of you, perhaps, seen a magician suspend a card,
apparently in mid-air, and cause it to go up or down as some one in the
audience requests. Sometimes a metal ball on a rod is used. These tricks
are worked by means of a black thread which is attached to the card or
ball and is pulled by a confederate behind the scenes.

Indeed, the black silk thread has been called the magician’s best
friend. It is absolutely invisible on the lighted stage against the
proper background, and the right kind is strong enough to lift
considerable weight.

A card chosen from the pack is made to rise or fall as follows: the
magician gets possession of the card selected by some one in the
audience, either by keeping his finger in the place in the pack into
which it is thrust, or by “forcing” a certain card on the person in the
audience. The performer knows what card he is going to “force” and,
later, can readily pick it out of the pack as he shuffles it. To “force”
a card, the operator rapidly spreads out a pack of cards, face down, in
front of a person, and quickly thrusts one card out farther than the
others, literally “forcing” it into the hand. It is a predetermined
card, but not one in a hundred realizes that.

At any rate, having the card, the performer goes back to the stage and
adroitly contrives to fasten the card to the unseen black silk thread
with a tiny bit of beeswax. Then, with the card apparently suspended in
mid-air, but in reality hung by an unseen thread, which runs through
screw-eyes on the stage floor, the card is made to go up or down or stop
midway, just as the audience calls for, by the pulling of the thread by
the assistant behind the scenes. When the trick is over the performer
slyly takes the card off the pellet of wax, no trace of which shows, and
passes the card around for examination. Of course it is an ordinary
card. The trick was all in the string.

Joe made a variation of that trick by using a round-bottomed little
papier-maché figure, bought in a toy store. There was no trick about the
figure. It was one of those which can not be made to lie down, but
continually bob up, because of a weight of lead in the rounded bottom.

Joe laid a glass shelf across the backs of two chairs, and after passing
the little round-bottomed figure about for inspection, returned with it
to the stage, placing it on the glass shelf.

“This little figure, by bowing to the right or to the left, will now
answer questions without assistance from me,” Joe announced. “A bow to
the left will mean ‘no,’ and a nod to the right will mean ‘yes.’ Or you
may have it the other way if you like. Which shall it be?”

The choice being thus left to the audience it seems impossible that
there can be any prearrangement.

“Right bow for ‘no,’” some one called.

“Very well,” agreed Joe, smiling. “It’s all the same to me. A bow to the
right will stand for ‘no,’ and the nod to the opposite direction will
mean ‘yes.’”

All this while the little figure rested on the glass shelf. Not a bit of
mechanism was to be observed, and Joe walked down from the stage and
stood in the audience after placing the figure on the glass.

“Now we will ask questions,” announced the young performer. “Is the lady
on my right married?”

“No,” nodded the figure.

“Is she willing to be?” he went on, amid laughter, while the young lady
blushed.

“Yes,” nodded the figure, amid still heartier laughter.

Joe asked many other questions, easily answered by no or yes. He did not
take the trouble to find out if the answers were correct. The questions
followed one another quickly, and the audience was interested in noting
the movements of the figure, with no one on the stage, with Joe far away
from it, and with nothing but a plain glass shelf on which the figure
rested.

When Joe had caused enough fun and mystification with this trick, he
walked back to the stage, picked up the figure and tossed it to a little
boy in a front seat.

“Take it home with you, youngster,” he said. “See if you can make it
behave as I did.”

Several interested ones around the boy examined the figure. There was no
deception about it, and the giving of it away proved this. In fact Joe
found that a good climax to the trick.

And now—how was it done?

Beforehand two black threads were passed from behind the scenes up
through the rounds of the chairs, over the backs and up on the glass
shelf, where they met in the middle, each thread ending in a little
pellet of wax. When Joe apparently carelessly placed the figure on the
glass shelf he fastened one of the waxed ends of thread to either side
of the half-rounded bottom.

He then went entirely away from the stage, and all that remained was for
the assistant behind the scenes to pull one thread to make the figure
bow to the right, and another to cause it to nod to the left. Of course
the assistant heard all that was said, and could govern himself
according to the choice of the audience. It was an effective trick, and
beautifully simple. You might even try it yourself, but be sure the
black threads do not show. It is for this reason that most magicians
have dark draperies for a stage background.

“Where do we go next?” asked Joe of the professor the night after he had
first introduced his magic figure trick, which had gone so well with the
audience.

“Hillsburg is the next town, and we ought to make quite some money
there, Joe.”

“You deserve more money,” proceeded Mr. Crabb, “and I am going to give
it to you. You are certainly a valuable addition to my show, and in time
you will be able to carry on a whole performance yourself. You still
have something to learn in palming, in making substitutions, and in
manipulating cards. But that takes practice and time. I have great hopes
of you.”

But alas for the hopes of doing a good business in Hillsburg! When they
reached that town, they found that a circus was playing there on the
same date as Professor Rosello’s show.

“No use trying to compete with a circus,” observed the professor, as he
heard the news at the small hotel where they put up. “We’ll just wait
over a couple of days, Joe, and perhaps we can think up some new tricks
in the meanwhile. A rest will do us no harm. I’ll just cancel to-day’s
engagement here, and put the show on two nights later. By that time we
can get a crowd.”

“Then you haven’t anything for me to do?”

“No, Joe.”

“I guess, then, I’ll go out and see them get ready for the circus. I may
take in the show, too.”

“Please yourself, Joe,” said the professor, as his young helper went
out. “I didn’t think he could resist the attraction of the sawdust rings
of a circus,” he murmured to himself with a smile.

CHAPTER XX
SOME TRAPEZE TRICKS

Joe did not have to ask his way to the circus grounds. He had only to
follow the crowd, mostly made up of small boys, though with a goodly
sprinkling of young men, all of whom were stringing their way out to the
big, vacant lots where the tents were being put up, and where the big
cages, wagons, horses, and animals were getting ready for the parade
that was to follow.

“They’ll likely have the horse and animal tents up by this time,” mused
Joe, “but I can see ’em fixing the main top.”

The largest tent, or the one where the performance is given, is called
in circus language the “main top.”

Joe knew something of circuses from having read of them and having seen
one or two, but also he remembered a very little, and seemed, too, to
have inherited a certain knowledge.

It would have been strange had he not had a hankering for a tent show,
for the son of Madame Hortense, one of the greatest circus riders of her
day, ought to have something of a liking for that strange life.

“I wonder if, by any chance, I’d meet some one who used to know my
mother,” mused Joe, as he walked onward. “It isn’t so very many years
ago that she was with a show, and there might be some old-time
performers who would know her. But it’s hardly likely, though possible.
Of course my father, having been mostly in theatre shows, wouldn’t be so
apt to know circus people. Say, it almost makes me want to be with ’em!”
Joe murmured enthusiastically, as he came in sight of the circus lots on
which lively scenes were being enacted.

Men were running about, straightening out the big folds of canvas,
lacing up the parts of the big tent preparatory to raising it, for the
“main top” comes in several sections for easier transportation.

Gay banners were fluttering from the animal tent, already up, and from
the one where the performers were to eat and dress.

Breakfast had already been served to the now busy workers; and from the
wagons, on which were the big stoves, there arose appetizing odors, as a
second meal was being gotten ready—a breakfast for the performers who
did not have to get up as early as did the laborers. Most of the circus
stuff had been brought from the railroad trains, and was on the grounds.

“I don’t see how they ever straighten things out,” mused Joe. But
somehow it was done. Every one had a certain part to perform. And while
one gang of men were putting up the tents, others were feeding the
horses and other animals, and those in charge of the parade were getting
that ready to march through the streets in order to entice the small boy
and his parent to come to the show.

Joe strolled past the place where, outside one of the performers’ tents,
men were pasting paper on the hoops through which the riders would leap
later. He did not stop to peer in at the animals, though many small boys
were feasting their eyes on such glimpses of the sights as they could
see. Joe did not care much for this.

“I wish I could see some of the trapeze and high wire fellows at
practice,” he mused. “I might pick up a few stunts myself.”

Joe passed a place where some of the performers’ trunks had been heaped
up in readiness to be taken into the dressing tents. Near them stood a
tall, slim, young fellow, of about Joe’s age. He did not seem very
muscular, and he was tugging away at a heavy trunk, which he could not
move.

“Shan’t I give you a hand?” asked Joe pleasantly. “That looks pretty
heavy.”

“It is,” was the answer, given with a smile. “I ought to have some of
the men help me, but they’re all too busy. My trunk is under this one,
and I want to get at it. There’s a hole in my suit I want to get mended
before the show opens.”

From that Joe knew the lad to be one of the performers.

“I guess I can get it down for you,” said the young wizard, and with a
heave of his powerful arms he lifted down the top trunk.

“My, but you’re strong!” exclaimed the other, somewhat enviously.

“Strong is my last name,” laughed Joe.

“Is it, really?”

“It sure is. Can I help you carry it to your dressing room?”

“Well, if you don’t mind, it would be a favor. I generally have one of
the men help me, but we’re a bit late to-day, on account of a train
wreck that held us up, and everybody is doing double work. My place is
right over there,” and he indicated the tent where he had his dressing
room, or, rather, space, for all do not have separate rooms in a circus.

As Joe took hold of one end of the trunk he noticed that it bore, in
big, white letters the words:

HUMAN FISH

Joe’s face must have showed his surprise, for the circus lad noticed it,
and with a laugh, said:

“It isn’t an aquarium you’re helping to carry. This just has my clothes
and some other things in it—the suit I wear—I’m the ‘human fish,’ you
know.”

“You are—a fish?”

“Yes. Turton’s my right name, Benny Turton, but I’m billed as the ‘human
fish.’ I do an act in a tank of water—swimming, diving, staying under a
long time, picking coins up in my mouth and all that. It isn’t a bad act
they tell me.

“Last night I ripped the suit I wear—sort of fish-scale arrangement, you
know, and I wanted to get it out of my trunk early, to have it mended.
I’m much obliged to you,” he went on, as Joe set his end of the trunk
down in the dressing tent, which was now becoming thronged with other
performers who were getting ready for the parade.

“Oh, you’re welcome, I’m sure,” Joe answered. “I guess I’ll come and see
you perform.”

“I’d be glad to have you. Say, if you’d like to look about a bit now I
can fix it up for you.”

“I’d like to see the trapeze fellows at practice.”

“All right. I’ll speak to the ring-master. Oh, I say Jim—Jim Tracy!”
called the “human fish” to a big, red-faced and black-mustached man who
entered the tent just then.

“Hello, Ben, what is it now?” was the answer.

“Here’s a friend of mine,” went on the “fish,” with a smile. “His name
is Strong. You ought to see him juggle trunks. He wants to watch the
trapeze fellows doing some try-outs.”

“All right, Ben. As long as he’s a friend of yours it goes. Make
yourself at home, Strong,” went on the ring-master, “and if anybody asks
you what you’re doing, tell ’em Jim Tracy said it was all right. How you
making out, Benny? Need any help?” His voice seemed to take on a kinder
tone as he spoke to the rather frail looking lad.

“Oh, I’m all right now. He gave me a hand just when I needed it,” and he
nodded to Joe. “Got to get my suit mended, or I’ll be full of water
before my act’s half over.”

“That’s right—don’t spoil the act,” admonished the ring-master. “It’s
too good to have that happen. Well, I’ve got about a thousand things to
do. See you later,” and with a nod to the two young men he hurried off.

“Now you can go about as you like,” said Benny. “He’s the head boss, and
one of the owners of Sampson Brothers’ Gigantic Aggregation of Circus
and Hippodrome,” said Ben with a laugh, as he quoted part of the show
bills. “What he says goes!”

Benny Turton, the “human fish,” had unlocked his trunk, and was taking
out a queer suit, made, it seemed, of rubber, covered with shimmering
green scales like those of a fish.

“This is supposed to be water-tight,” Benny explained, “and it is, when
it doesn’t leak. I’ve got to put a patch on one elbow,” and he showed
where a rip would let water in. “I mend it with a rubber cement,” he
added, “and it takes a little time to dry. That’s why I was in a hurry
to get at it. You’ll see some of the trapeze men at work soon, I think.
Come back when you’re through watching them.”

A little later Joe found himself in the main tent, which was now almost
completely erected, and as soon as this had been done men began putting
in place the trapezes, flying rings and other pieces of apparatus on
which the acrobats performed their feats.

While this was going on a man came strolling in, and from the anxious
orders he gave, and from the manner in which he watched the arranging of
some of the trapezes, Joe surmised that he was one of the performers. He
made sure of this a little later when the man swung himself up on the
bar, tested it, and then began to go through a few simple exercises in
his street clothes, as though to test the ropes and fastenings.

“All right,” he called to the workmen. “That’ll do.”

“The Lascalla Brothers are mighty particular,” murmured one of the
workmen, as the performer went out.

“I should say so!” was the comment of another. Then Joe knew he had seen
one of the most famous of trapeze performers, whose name was in large
letters on the bills.

One or two men questioned Joe’s presence, but when he mentioned Jim
Tracy he was made welcome.

Most of the trapezes were in place, and the workmen had gone to another
part of the big tent. Joe strolled over toward one of the swinging bars.

“Say, wouldn’t I like to try it just once!” he murmured. “I’ve never
been on a real circus trapeze.” He looked about him. No one seemed to be
noticing him. “Here goes!” he exclaimed.

Lightly he sprang and grasped the bar. The feel of it seemed natural to
his hands, and he felt his springy muscles contracting for the upward
pull. He swung lightly to the bar, and sat there, moving to and fro.

Then, in a sort of reckless spirit Joe went through a number of
evolutions, such as he had often practiced alone at home or in some
chum’s barn.

Joe was hampered by his street shoes and clothes from doing very much,
but what he did he did well. Daring indeed were one or two of the feats
he attempted, for there was no life net below him. He worked rapidly and
then, giving a final swing on the bar he shot off it, turned a
somersault, and landed on his feet on a pile of canvas some distance
off.

“Say, that wasn’t bad! Better work in a little of that new stuff
to-day,” said a voice behind Joe. The young wizard turned quickly to
behold Jim Tracy looking at him.

“Hello! Oh, it’s you, is it?” asked the ring-master. “Blessed if I
didn’t think it was one of our regular performers doing a try-out. Say,
Ben didn’t tell me you belonged to the profesh.”

“I don’t. That is I’m an assistant to Professor Rosello, a magician. I’m
not a circus performer.”

“Well, it’s too bad you aren’t,” was the comment. “I’ve seen some good
tricks on a trapeze, but you’ve got a few of your own. I don’t s’pose
you’d like to join the show, would you? I could use an extra trapeze and
ring act. Now if you’d like to consider it, I’ll make you an offer.”

Joe’s heart beat high for a moment. He was almost tempted to accept.
Then he realized that he had not yet perfected himself in the working of
magic, and he wanted to do this. So he shook his head.

“No, thank you,” he said, gratefully. “I guess I’ll stick to Professor
Rosello for the present.”

“Well, you know your own business best,” answered the ring-master, “and
I sure don’t want to take you away from the man you’re with. But if ever
you think of joining a circus, why drop me a line. You’ll find us——”

But the ring-master was suddenly interrupted.

“Oh, Jim!” cried a voice, and Joe turned to behold, what he afterward
declared was, a “vision in pink,” hurrying into the main tent. The
“vision” was a young girl, with a laughing face, merry brown eyes and a
vivacious manner.

“Oh, Jim!” she cried. “I am in _such_ trouble!”

“Well now, Miss Helen, what’s the trouble?” asked Jim in a good-natured
voice, as though he were speaking to some child. “We sure will have to
have it fixed for you.”

“Oh, thank you, Jim,” and the “vision” turned and gazed full at Joe.

Joe blushed.

CHAPTER XXI
ALMOST CAUGHT

“Well, now, Miss Helen, what’s the trouble?” asked the ring-master,
while Joe continued to gaze at the “vision.”

“Oh, I can’t get any lump sugar for Rosebud, and you know he won’t eat
the other kind.” Her lips pouted prettily, and then she smiled—Joe
declared at him, though it may have been at both of them.

“No lump sugar, eh? Well, that sure _is_ a calamity!” laughed Jim Tracy.
“I’ll have to see to that. Rosebud must have his sugar.”

“If he doesn’t, you know he won’t do his tricks well,” went on the girl,
now smiling broadly. “Please get some for me, Jim.”

“I sure will, if I have to rob the breakfast table! I’ll be back in a
minute,” he added to Joe. “You might wait here.”

Joe was perfectly willing to wait. He hoped the “vision” would return.

“Is he a new performer?” asked the girl, nodding and smiling at Joe, as
she walked off with the ring-master.

“Well, no, not exactly, Miss Helen. I’ve made him an offer—I just had
to, after I saw him doing some stunts on a trapeze—but he seems to think
he likes magic better.”

“Then he doesn’t like our circus?” The girl stopped, and once more she
pouted prettily.

“Oh, it isn’t that, I assure you!” exclaimed Joe quickly. “But you see I
am under some obligations to Professor Rosello, and I don’t want to
leave him in the middle of the season.”

“That’s right,” chimed in Jim. “It’s best to play fair. But come along,
Miss Helen, and I’ll see if I can rustle some sugar for Rosebud.”

“Good-bye!” she called to Joe. “But I should think you’d like a circus
better than doing those queer tricks. Though they _are_ nice,” she
added, with a little nod.

The sun seemed to have gone under a cloud to Joe as she went out of the
tent. Brightness had vanished.

“I—I almost wish I had taken his offer,” mused the lad. “I wonder——” he
paused as he remembered the flash of her brown eyes and her smile. “No,
I’d better stick to the professor. Maybe—later——Oh, well, I’ll have to
think about it.”

He walked about, looking at the preparations still going on to get the
main tent in readiness for the show. He saw Jim coming back, alone.

“Did you get the sugar?” he asked the ring-master.

“Yes. Rosebud won’t starve to-day.”

“Who’s Rosebud?”

“Her trick horse, and a dandy, too.” Then, though Joe did not ask, Jim
went on. “She’s one of our biggest drawing cards. Her name is Helen
Morton, but she’s billed as Mademoiselle Mortonti. It looks better on
paper.”

“What does she do?” Joe found himself asking.

“Fancy riding, and on a trick horse. She makes Rosebud do all sorts of
tricks—amuses the young folks, and some of the old ones too. She makes a
great pet of her horse and gives him lump sugar as a reward. I generally
have a supply on hand for her, but it must have got side-tracked on
account of the mix-up. However, I found some for her.

“She’s one of the finest little girls in the world,” went on the
ring-master earnestly. “We all love her. She’s an orphan, but she
doesn’t lack friends. Some folks sort of look down on circus
performers,” went on Jim, with a flash of his eyes, “but I want to tell
you, right now, that——”

“You don’t need to tell _me_ anything,” said Joe in a low voice. “My
mother was a circus performer. Madame Hortense was the name she rode
under.”

Jim stared at Joe with open mouth.

“Your mother in the profesh?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I can’t say I ever heard of her—but that’s not strange,” said the
ring-master slowly. “I haven’t been in the business all my life. But if
your mother was a circus rider then you know. Shake!”

He held out a powerful hand. Joe gripped it none the less powerfully.

“Say, you’ve got some hold!” exclaimed the ring-master with admiration
in his voice. “Better think my offer over.”

“I’d like to,” answered Joe, “but I’d better stick where I am for the
present.”

“Well, you know best. But if you ever decide to join—you can always find
our advance route bookings in one of the theatrical papers. Drop me a
line.”

Joe promised to do so, and went outside, perhaps hoping for a sight of
Miss Morton. But he did not see her. He did, however, see much that
interested him in the way of circus life, and he understood something of
the fascination it had for his mother, especially as she was such an
accomplished horsewoman; and feats of horsemanship are nowhere better
appreciated than in a circus.

“Well, did you see all you wanted?” asked Benny Turton, as Joe rejoined
him.

“Yes, I saw lots. Even got an offer to go with the show.”

“You didn’t!”

“Yes I did,” and Joe narrated his experience.

“Say, I think maybe you’d make out good in a circus,” said Benny,
holding up his scaly suit for a close examination. He wanted no more
leaks in it.

“No, I’ll stick to magic for a while yet,” Joe answered. “But I think
you’ll be busy soon, getting ready for the performance, so I’ll leave
you. Remember, I’m coming to see you do your stunt.”

“I hope you do.”

As Professor Rosello was not going to give a show that evening, Joe was
free. He went to the afternoon and evening circus performances, and he
tried to tell himself that it was to watch the “human fish” and some
other special acts. But though Benny’s act was interesting and
startling, Joe paid more attention to the riding of Miss Helen Morton
and the tricks of her horse, Rosebud, than he did to Benny. And the
performance of Mademoiselle Mortonti was well worth watching. It was a
beautiful exhibition of horsemanship on the part of a refined young
girl, and it brought forth round after round of applause, in which Joe
joined enthusiastically.

The circus moved out of town after the final performance, and Joe and
the professor gave their show.

They did not draw as large crowds as they would have done had not the
counter attraction of the circus operated against them, but they did
fairly well.

Joe introduced a new trick, which made an instant hit. It was very
simple, too.

When his turn came to occupy the stage he advanced with a candle and a
box of matches in his hand.

“Fire is a mysterious element,” he stated. “It is a good servant but a
bad master. Well controlled, fire and light are very useful. Now I have
here a candle which is exceptionally well educated. That is it can be
lighted, extinguished and lighted again by the mere movement of my wand.

“Now I don’t say every one can do this, for you have not all of you
magic wands. But, lest some of you think the trick is easy, I am going
to ask one of you to come up here and light this candle. Will you come?”
and he indicated a young man in a front seat. After some hesitation the
youth ascended the stage.

“Do you know which end of a match to light?” asked Joe. The youth
grinningly admitted that he did. Joe then handed him a candle and bade
him light it. When it was aglow Joe handed the youth the wand, and told
him to point it at the candle.

“Just point it at the flame, and order it to go out—vamoose!” Joe
ordered. The youth tried this, but the candle still burned on. “I guess
you’ll have to speak louder,” observed Joe with a smile, “the candle may
be deaf.”

Accordingly the youth shouted, but still the candle burned.

“Louder!” urged Joe, and the youth fairly yelled. But still the candle
burned brightly. “You see not every one has the magic power,” stated the
young performer. “Now let me show you how it is done.”

“Just help this young man down the steps,” Joe directed his assistant,
the boy previously referred to. “I am afraid he may have strained
himself shouting.”

There was a laugh at this, and the audience watched Joe’s helper
solicitously assisting the volunteer down the steps.

While this was going on Joe had taken the lighted candle and had walked
back with it to one of his tables, on which he placed it.

“Now I will show you how it is done,” he said. “Ah, the wind has blown
out the candle, but as the wind can not light it again I will first do
so with a match, and we will then call on the forces of magic to do the
rest.”

Joe lighted the candle, and then, standing some little distance from the
table on which the glowing taper stood, he pointed his wand at it, and
cried:

“Out, candle!”

Immediately the candle was extinguished.

“No, I didn’t blow it out.” Joe said, pretending that some one in the
audience had said that. “To prove it I will, without moving, light it
from where I stand.” Then he exclaimed:

“Candle, light!”

At once the candle leaped into a glow. There were surprised exclamations
at this, and Joe repeated the trick several times.

“It is very easy when you know how,” he said, “and to prove there is no
trick about it I will pass the candle down to you for examination.” Joe
tossed a candle among the audience. Several examined it. There was no
doubt that it was just an ordinary candle.

“How did he do it?” every one asked.

The secret lay in a trick candle. The first one Joe lighted for the
young man was an ordinary taper. Once blown out it could not be lighted
except with a match.

But when Joe had his helper assist the young man down off the stage, the
young magician took advantage of the fun and confusion over this to
substitute on his table a trick candle for the ordinary one.

This trick candle consisted of a metal tube, painted white, and made to
look exactly like a candle, with a metal point at the top to represent a
wick. Inside the hollow metal tube was a small wax taper, a miniature
candle, and it was held up near the top by an inside, spiral spring. The
spring was strong enough to carry up the taper as fast as it burned, but
could be pulled down by a black silk thread, coming out at the bottom of
the candle stick, and extending across the stage through the draperies,
where it was held by Professor Rosello, who helped Joe in this illusion.

Joe quickly substituted the trick candle for the real one and lighted
it, pretending that the wind had blown that one out as he walked to the
table.

With the trick candle aglow, Joe only had to take his position where he
pleased, and order the candle to go out. At once Professor Rosello,
behind the scenes, pulled the black thread, invisible to the audience.
The taper, still lighted, was pulled down inside the hollow metal candle
stick, and, of course, it seemed just as if it went out. It was still
burning, however, some small air holes on the back of the tube, where
they could not be seen, providing the oxygen.

When Joe, pointing the other end of his wand at the candle, ordered it
to light, Professor Rosello released the string, and the concealed
spring raised the still lighted taper into view, so that the candle
appeared to light itself in a mysterious manner.

Thus Joe did the trick, which was received very well, causing quite a
sensation. Professor Rosello complimented him on its success.

It was toward the close of the performance. Joe was about to step down
off the stage to pass through the audience with a vase for examination,
when he looked to the back of the hall, and there, to his great
surprise, he saw the vindictive face of his foster-father, Deacon
Blackford. Joe gasped, and quickly turned back. Under pretense of
arranging the trick with the professor, Joe whispered:

“My foster-father is out in the audience. He must have been following me
and he has come here to arrest me. He thinks I stole that money, but I
didn’t. I don’t want to be falsely arrested. What shall I do?”

The professor thought quickly.

“It was a narrow escape,” he said. “He almost caught you. He is probably
waiting for you to come down in the crowd so he can grab you. Quick now.
Go behind the scenes. I’ll hold the audience with some patter. Then you
tell the boy to come out and help me with this trick. He can do it as
well as you, as it is very simple. I’ll finish the rest of the show
alone.”

“But what shall I do?” asked Joe.

“Slip out by the stage door, go to the hotel, get your things and take
the first train for Seneca. We show there next. I’ll come on as soon as
I can pack up after the show. We’ll fool the deacon. There is no need of
being arrested if you are innocent, and it is evident he came here to
take you into custody. It’s a good thing you saw him in time.”

Joe hurried back of the scenes, while Professor Rosello held the
attention of the audience, including that of Deacon Blackford.

CHAPTER XXII
STRANGE NEWS

Because of what had happened and the trouble that might be caused to Joe
should his foster-father cause his arrest, Professor Rosello made a
change in the end of his show. He substituted some simple tricks for the
more elaborate feats of magic in which he needed Joe’s help.

Still he kept the audience amused, and that was the main point.
Professor Rosello even saw Deacon Blackford laughing at some of the
tricks and the “patter” which accompanied them. But immediately after he
smiled, the stern man became more stern, as though ashamed of himself
for having given way to mirth.

“I guess he’ll find out, if he lives long enough,” thought the
performer, “that circus people and magicians aren’t as black as they are
painted.”

The professor was thoroughly impressed with the belief in Joe’s
innocence, and he did not want to see him subjected to the humiliation
of an arrest.

“Innocent as he is, and as I believe him to be,” thought the professor,
“it would take time to prove it, and it would delay my show. It may make
him look guilty to run away in this fashion, but I believe it the best
way. Later on, if necessary, Joe can give himself up and explain.”

Meanwhile Joe, having the same idea, was making his way out of the stage
door of the theatre. He hurried to the hotel, packed up his belongings
and took a train to the next town. The professor and the baggage would
come by a later train.

“That was a narrow escape,” mused Joe, as he hurried away. “I wonder how
he found me?”

The answer to that question was not difficult.

Professor Rosello went on with the performance. Among other tricks was
the one of making the arithmetic sum appear on the slate—the trick Joe
had explained to his chums the day the fireworks factory burned.

Another was the producing of hundreds of feet of colored paper, in the
shape of a ribbon, and scores of paper flowers from a hat borrowed from
some one in the audience. The hat was shown empty, and immediately
thereafter the performer, putting in the end of his wand, proceeded to
wind out on it yard after yard of paper ribbon. Next he shook out paper
flowers, so that with the ribbon, they made quite a pile on the table—a
pile much larger than the hat itself.

“I didn’t know you carried all that stuff with you, sir,” said the
professor to the man whose hat he had borrowed. “You must find it quite
a burden.

“And that isn’t all, either,” went on the performer. He looked closely
into the hat, a puzzled look came over his face, and he asked: “Have you
a permit to carry live stock about with you?”

“Live stock?” repeated the man, wonderingly.

“Yes. I see something alive in here. Here it is,” and, putting in his
hand, which was seen to be empty, while the other grasped the hat by the
brim, the professor pulled out a live and kicking guinea pig.

The audience laughed heartily at this, and the professor tried to put
back into the hat the heap of paper ribbon, flowers and the live animal.
Of course, they would not fit.

“Well,” went on the performer, with a puzzled air, “_you_ may be able to
get all those things in your hat, my dear sir, but _I_ can’t, though I
was able to get them out.”

He then piled the paper ribbon and flowers on the head covering and
passed it to the man. The guinea pig was taken in charge by the young
assistant to be used on the next occasion.

It need hardly be explained that Professor Rosello put all the articles
in the hat (“loaded” it, to use the magician’s term) as he walked back
with it from where he had borrowed it to the stage. The guinea pig,
which had been used so often in the trick that it was very tame, and
would lie quietly where placed, was first put in the bottom of the hat
while it was held close to the lower part of the performer’s vest. He
had the little animal under there, putting it in its hiding place just
before he was ready to work the trick.

The paper ribbon and flowers he had concealed in a secret pocket, and
these he slipped into the hat with the pig on his way up the stage
steps. He was now ready for the trick.

Paper ribbon for this purpose comes wound in tight rolls, and can be
bought in any conjuring-goods store. It rolls up into a very compact
mass, but when unwound, and fluffed up, occupies much greater space, so
that what seems to be a bushel or more can be taken from an ordinary
derby.

The paper flowers are in the same class. They come in compact form, in
bundles. A bundle, which can easily be palmed, is dropped into the hat.
A pressure of the thumb breaks the binding, and the tiny wire springs in
the petals of the flowers cause them to expand, thus occupying a much
larger space than before, so that the hat seems to be overflowing with
them. Under the paper ribbon and the flowers was the guinea pig. The
outside wrapping of the compact bundles of ribbon and flowers is made
black, so that it is not seen against the dark background of the hat’s
interior.

And it might be stated here that no matter what trick of this character
is done by a magician, it may be set down as a safe rule that nothing
ever comes out of a hat, a vase, a box or anything else, unless it has
first gone in. So if a magician takes a live pig out of a hat, it is
very certain he first put it there. Of course, how he gets it there is
his trick—he does it so quickly and deftly that one fails to see him.
Certainly, one cannot fold a guinea pig up into a packet the size of a
pill box, as one can yards and yards of paper ribbon, but there are ways
of getting it in a hat which differ with each conjurer.

The show was over, the audience departed, having passed an enjoyable
evening, and Professor Rosello was putting away his apparatus when he
saw a man walking down the aisle toward the stage. He suspected this was
Joe’s foster-father and the suspicion was made a certainty a moment
later.

“You had a young man working for you on the stage, didn’t you?” asked
the deacon. “He was here a while ago.”

“Yes, I have an assistant. Here, boy!” Professor Rosello called.

“No, I don’t mean that one,” said the deacon, as the small lad came out.
“I mean the other. Joe Strong his name is.”

“Oh, Joe. Yes,” said the professor slowly. “Well, he’s gone.”

“Gone?” The deacon looked startled. “I was waiting for him.”

“Well, he’s gone,” went on the professor. “He’s far away from here now.
Perhaps if he had known you wanted him he would have waited.”

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t!” exclaimed the deacon. “He knew what I wanted all
right—that is if he saw me, which I didn’t think he did. I want him on a
charge of robbery. He also set fire to my place, though I don’t say he
did that on purpose. However, he’s got to pay for the damage. But where
is he? I’ve got a warrant for him.”

“He’s gone, I tell you,” insisted the professor.

“Well, I’ll find him,” stormed the old man. “I traced him here and I’ll
trace him farther. One of the boys from our town saw him a few weeks
ago, and Joe sent a message to me, saying he didn’t take the money. But
I know he did. I made up my mind I’d get him, and I heard your show was
coming here. So I came here to wait for Joe. He may have run away again,
but I’ll get him. I’ll have him locked up for robbing me!”

“Well, you’ll have to settle that with him,” observed the professor,
coolly. “I know nothing about it, except that I believe Joe is
innocent.”

“Well, I don’t!” exclaimed the deacon. “And I’ll get him yet! You tell
him that for me!” and he shook his fist as he went out of the now dark
theatre.

“I think he means trouble,” mused the professor, as he prepared to take
the train.

As arranged, Joe and the professor met later that night in the town
where they were next to show. Professor Rosello told of his interview
with the deacon.

“He surely is after you, Joe,” he added.

“Well, I’ll have to be on the lookout; that’s all,” decided the boy
wizard. “I’m not going to be punished for something I didn’t do.”

Three days after this, having arrived at a large town where they were to
remain two nights, Professor Rosello came to the theatre in the
afternoon to see if Joe had everything in readiness for the evening’s
show.

“Joe,” remarked the magician, as he noted that his young helper had left
nothing undone, “Joe, did your foster-father ever have any business
dealings with two men whose first names were Burke and Jake?”

“Burke and Jake,” repeated Joe, thoughtfully. “I don’t know that he did.
You see he was in the feed business, and lots of men came to sell to
him, or buy. I wouldn’t know half of them, though I often helped about
the store. Why do you ask that, Professor?”

“Well, it’s a strange sort of thing, and there may be nothing in it,”
went on the professor. “But I was just down at the hotel, having a bit
of lunch, and at the table next to mine were two men. They called each
other Burke and Jake, and in the course of their talk they mentioned
Deacon Blackford’s name several times.”

“They did?”

“Yes, and not only that, but they knew about the theft of the money from
him and Mrs. Blackford.”

“Well, I suppose the deacon has pretty well advertised the loss,” said
Joe, “so there isn’t anything so strange in that.”

“No, perhaps not,” admitted the professor, slowly. “But here is the
strange part of it, Joe.

“Those two men—I didn’t catch their last names—not only seemed to know
about the loss, but they laughed over it as though it were a good joke.
In fact, I should say, just from a casual observation and from what I
heard, that they knew more about the theft than even the deacon
himself.”

“You think they do?”

“That’s my impression.”

“Maybe they were detectives,” Joe suggested. “The deacon would call in
the police, and they might be on my trail. I wonder if I had better get
out while I have the chance?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” said the professor. “These men weren’t detectives,
I’m sure of that. But they certainly laughed about the deacon’s loss in
a knowing way.”

“I wonder who they are,” mused Joe.

CHAPTER XXIII
“I’VE GOT YOU!”

Joe had been reading a letter when Professor Rosello came in with the
strange news about the two men. The letter was from Benny Turton, the
“human fish,” of Sampson Brothers’ Circus, and was in response to a
souvenir postcard Joe had sent the lad, hardly expecting a reply. Joe
had just done it as a kind remembrance to the lad to whom he had given a
little help.

But Benny wrote rather a long letter in reply, Joe having given his
future address. In the letter Benny said that he was not feeling well,
but that he still had to go on with his tank act.

“I rather wish, some days, that I had your work,” he wrote. “I gave your
regards, as you requested, to Jim Tracy and Miss Morton. They wish to be
remembered to you. Miss Morton wants to know if you are ever going to
join a circus.”

Joe smiled in reflective fashion as he folded the letter and put it in
his pocket. So Helen Morton, “Mademoiselle Mortonti,” had not forgotten
him, nor had the ring-master, though their acquaintanceship was of the
briefest. Joe was glad they had remembered him—particularly glad in the
case of Helen.

But, for the time being, the letter was put aside. Joe’s mind was busy
trying to conjecture who the two men at the hotel could be.

“I wonder if I’d better go down and see if I can’t get a look at them
without their seeing me?” he asked Professor Rosello.

“I wouldn’t, Joe,” was the advice. “If I’m any judge they’ll be at the
show to-night, and you can see them then.”

“What makes you think they’ll be here?”

“Because I heard one of them ask what sort of show ours was. There are
posters in the hotel you know. The other man said it wasn’t half
bad—quite a compliment to us, Joe. And the first one remarked, as they
had nothing to do to-night, they might as well take in our performance.
So we may see them in the audience.”

“Do you think they know I’m with you?”

“I don’t see how they can. You don’t recall them, and it isn’t likely
they’d know you.”

“All right, then I’ll be on the lookout for them,” Joe decided. “It sure
is queer, though, that they should make a joke about the deacon’s loss.”

“That’s the way it struck me,” agreed the professor. “Now how about the
tricks to-night? Have you the pigeons and the canary?”

“Yes,” answered Joe. “But I’m not just sure of what I am to do.”

“Then we’ll have a little rehearsal.”

Joe was a little nervous that evening as the time for the performance
drew near and the theatre began to fill. He was not at all alarmed at
the part he was to play on the stage, for he had become used to that
now. But he wanted to see the strange men, to ascertain if, by any
possible chance, they could be some of the customers of his
foster-father—customers he might have seen about the feed and grain
place.

“I’ll point them out to you if I see them,” said the professor, as he
was getting into his dress suit—the suit that had about it so many
pockets, hidden in various places, so that articles could be gotten rid
of or produced at will. Joe now had a suit like this, since he did
almost as many tricks as Professor Rosello himself.

“I may not be able to see them very well from the stage,” Joe remarked.

“Well then, you can invent some excuse to go down in the audience. Work
one of the simple card tricks, or something like that.” For Joe was
becoming adept in manipulating cards, allowing persons to choose cards,
thrust them back into the pack without his seeing them, and picking them
out again. Of course, this was all done either by “forcing” certain
cards, known in advance, or by clever cutting, shuffling the cards
falsely, or by prepared trick cards.

“Well, that might do,” agreed Joe. “We’ll just have to trust to luck.”

The curtain went up, and the usual procedure was gone through with. Joe
noticed that the professor was paying more attention than usual to the
audience, carefully scrutinizing every section of the hall. But if he
saw the two suspicious men he gave no sign to Joe.

There were two new tricks to be performed that evening. One was the
production of two doves in a seemingly empty cage, causing them to
materialize from guinea pigs.

Another illusion was to seemingly burn up a canary bird, and bring it to
life again.

The first trick went off well. A large bird cage was shown on a table.
There was nothing in it, as far as could be seen. Professor Rosello took
two small, live guinea pigs, which he said he would put into a tin
cylinder on a second table, and at the firing of a pistol the guinea
pigs would disappear, being changed into doves in the empty cage.

He did just as he said he would do. The guinea pigs were put in the tin
cylinder and the cover clapped on. The performer aimed a stage pistol at
the tin, fired, and with the flash and report two white doves were seen
fluttering in the cage. The tin cylinder, being opened, was seen to be
empty.

The trick was mechanical, of course. As soon as the guinea pigs were put
in the cylinder, they slipped down through a false bottom, and through a
trap in the table, to a little box made to receive them. That left the
cylinder empty.

The bird cage was a trick one. As the audience looked at it while it
stood on the table, it seemed to be an ordinary cage. But behind it was
a black velvet curtain which concealed from view the fact that the back
of the cage was double. It was as if the bottom of the cage had been
folded up against the rear, and in between the false bottom and the
back, was a place large enough to hold two white doves.

When the pistol was fired Joe, behind the scenes, pulled a black silk
thread that let the false side fall down, and become a second bottom of
the cage. The falling away of the side allowed the doves to flutter from
their concealed hiding place into the cage, where they seemed to appear
so miraculously.

The trick with the canary was worked differently. A live canary, was
shown. It was placed in a light paper bag, the mouth tied, and the bag
and canary were hung in the center of a target suspended on the stage by
wires. After the usual “patter” a rifle was fired at the suspended bag.
To make the trick more effective some one in the audience was allowed to
shoot at the canary in the bag. As he did so the bag burst into flames,
disappeared and, where the target had been, there suddenly appeared a
bird cage with a live canary in it.

The trick was worked as follows:

Two canaries were used. Before the trick was performed one was put into
a trick cage which, when suspended from the stage with its top toward
the audience, seemed to be a target. There was a paper target and
bull’s-eye in fact, but it closed up by springs at the proper time, and
did not show on top of the cage, which contained a live canary in a
secret compartment.

This piece of apparatus was in place before the trick started. The
professor put a live canary in a paper bag. That is, he seemed to do so.
In reality the canary was safely hidden in a compartment of a table near
which the professor stood with the bag. This was sleight-of-hand work.
The bag was made of a special kind of paper which would burn instantly,
with a flash of fire when ignited, something like flash-light powder.

Professor Rosello appeared to hang the paper bag, inside of which was
the canary, in front of the bull’s-eye. As a matter of fact, there was
nothing in the paper bag. But it was hung near a little electrical
device, from which ran wires back of the rear stage draperies. Behind
the curtains Joe was concealed.

When all was ready the professor handed some one in the audience a stage
gun that fired no missile—only making a report. The man was told to aim
at the paper bag in front of the target, and did so.

“Fire!” called the professor, after some talk in which he professed
uneasiness for the safety of the audience.

At the sound of the report the paper bag disappeared in a flash of flame
and smoke. The target also disappeared, and there, hanging from its
supporting wires, was a bird cage with a live canary in it.

When the gun was fired Joe, behind the scenes, pressed the button of the
electrical device. A tiny flame appeared, set fire to the prepared bag,
which at once went up in smoke. At the same time Joe pulled a black silk
thread connected with the birdcage which, with its top presented to the
audience, looked like a target. The target was folded away out of sight,
and the bird cage, which was a collapsible one, expanded to its regular
shape, the second canary fluttering about as soon as released from the
secret compartment where it had been hidden all the while.

Thus was a bird seemingly burned, only to be reincarnated. It was an
effective illusion.

It was now time for Joe’s disappearing trick, and while he was taking
his place on the prepared chair over the trap-door in the stage, and
while the professor was putting the black sheet over him, he managed to
whisper to Joe:

“Look at the two men in the seventh row in the two end seats on your
right.”

“I see them,” said Joe in a low voice.

“They are the ones I heard talking at the hotel. Do you know them?”

The professor asked this in between his “patter” which went with the
disappearing trick.

“Their faces seem familiar,” Joe said, as the veil went over his head.
“But I’m not sure I know them. I’ll see them after the show.”

There were a few more illusions, and the performance came to a close.
Joe, not stopping to change his clothes, started down the aisle.

“I’ll follow those men,” he said to the professor, who nodded a
permission.

But as Joe reached the lobby of the theatre, intending to question the
men, if he could stop them, he fell back in astonishment at the sight of
his foster-father and Hen Sylvester, one of the Bedford constables.

“Ha! There he is!” cried the deacon. “I’ve got you now!” and he made a
grab for Joe.

CHAPTER XXIV
CAUGHT

Joe did not know what to do. He could not very well run away through
that crowd. To do so would be such a confession of guilt that almost any
officer would arrest him. And Hen Sylvester certainly would take after
him, creating a scene.

On the other hand, if Joe was delayed the men would get away. And he
wanted to know more about them. He looked hurriedly around but did not
see them. The deacon misinterpreted this look, for he cried in angry
tones.

“Look out for him, Hen! He’s trying to escape. Grab him!”

“Oh, I’ll grab him all right!” cried the constable. “He got away from me
once, on the freight, but he won’t now.”

The officer made a grab for Joe and an excited crowd gathered about. Joe
made up his mind quickly.

“Look here, Dad,” he said, giving his foster-parent the name he often
used. “Don’t make a scene here. There’s no use using violence. I’ll go
with you quietly. You’re making a big mistake, for I can explain
everything.”

“You can’t explain away about my——”

“Hush,” cautioned Hen. For he liked Joe, and did not want it published
to the crowd that the lad was suspected of theft.

“Gentlemen, will you come with me?” interrupted Professor Rosello, who
had followed Joe to the lobby. “Come to my dressing room, where we can
talk matters over quietly,” he went on. “It’s all right,” he said to the
crowd and to the theatrical employees who had gathered about. “Just a
mistake, that’s all. This way, gentlemen.”

“But those men!” exclaimed Joe. “They’ll get away!”

“We’ll have to take chances on that,” the professor whispered to him.
“Maybe they’ll stay at the hotel all night. But you must take the deacon
and the officer out of this. We’ll talk to them in my room.”

Joe saw the wisdom of this, and a little later he was facing the angry
dealer and the constable.

“Now then,” began the professor, “what’s it all about?”

“It’s about this boy,” said the deacon, sternly. “He robbed me of
considerable money. He robbed my wife, too, and set fire to the place,
but I put it out. That’s what the matter is!”

“And I have a warrant for his arrest,” went on Hen Sylvester. “He is
charged with robbery.”

“I never took a cent of yours, nor Mrs. Blackford’s either!” cried Joe,
“and I don’t know anything about a fire. I did run away from your house,
because I could stand it no longer.”

Then, in impassioned tones, he told the story of that eventful night—how
he had caught the freight and met the professor. He spoke briefly of his
work as a magician.

“What makes you think he robbed you?” asked the magician of the deacon.

“Why, I saw him leaving by the window, and right after that I missed the
papers and the money.”

“Did you see Joe’s face?”

“No. But I know it was him.”

“It wasn’t,” said Joe. “I never stole in my life. Listen, Deacon
Blackford. You were robbed—of that there’s no doubt—but it was by some
one else. When you stopped me just now, I was on the trail of some men
who undoubtedly know something about the crime.”

Rapidly, earnestly, Joe told about the two men—the men who had joked
about the deacon’s loss, the men he had tried to follow from the
theatre.

“Their names were Burke and Jake,” he said. “Do you know who they were?”
and he turned to his foster-father.

“Burke and Jake! Burke Denton and Jake Harrison!” murmured the deacon.
“I—I never thought of them! The papers—the investment papers—they were
taken with the money—why—why——”

He seemed lost in thought for a moment.

“Look here!” he finally said. “I’m not saying you didn’t rob me, Joe,
but I’m a Christian, and I don’t want to accuse anybody unjustly. It is
true that the men you speak of might have done it. Where can they be
found?”

“I don’t know—now,” answered Joe.

Joe pleaded his case earnestly. He went over every detail of his escape
from the deacon’s house that night, and described every movement so
minutely that an unprejudiced listener could not help believing him.

“You and Jim chased me,” he said to Hem Sylvester. “I didn’t want to
stop for fear of missing the train. I suppose that did look sort of
guilty.”

“It sure did,” agreed Hen.

“But you know what time the train left. You saw me jump in the box car,”
went on Joe. “And you,” turning to the deacon, “know what time it was
when you saw some one getting out of the window. Now could I have gotten
from the house to the train in that difference of time?”

The deacon and the constable thought a moment. The deacon mentioned the
time he had seen the robber escaping, and it was evident that Joe could
not have been in two places at once.

“Well, I guess that practically clears you,” admitted Sylvester. “I
don’t see as we have any use for this warrant, Deacon,” and he produced
the paper.

“Save it,” said Joe with a smile. “Maybe you can change the names and
use it on those two men. We’ll see if we can catch them. What kind of
investment papers did they take from you?” he asked the deacon.

“Some like this,” and the deacon produced a bond. “It’s the only one
they overlooked.”

“May I borrow it?” asked Joe.

The deacon let him take it, and then all four of them left the theatre,
it not being necessary to take away any of the “props,” as another
performance was to be given the next night.

“We’ll go to the hotel,” suggested Joe. “It’s just possible the men may
be there. They haven’t anything to suspect unless they saw you,” he said
to the deacon.

“No, I don’t believe they saw us,” said Hen. “We didn’t get here until
after dark. The deacon read in the paper that your show was here, so he
got me, and we took the late afternoon train from Bedford.”

A glance in the hotel lobby did not disclose the two men, but in the
cafe they were seen sitting at a table. A look through the swinging
doors showed this.

“Have you authority to make arrests here?” asked Joe of the constable.

“Yes, this is in the same county as Bedford.”

“Then go in and arrest those two men. I’m sure they’re guilty.”

“And I am too,” said the deacon. “Take ’em in, Hen. I’ll swear out a
warrant against ’em!”

That was all the constable needed. He had authority for his act now. He
marched into the cafe, the deacon, Joe and the professor fallowing.

“I arrest you in the name of the law!” exclaimed Sylvester, laying a
hand each on the two men’s shoulders. “You’re caught and you’ve got to
come with me!”

Denton and Harrison started up, but at the sight of the deacon sank back
in their chairs. Before they could move the constable had snapped
handcuffs on them.

CHAPTER XXV
JOE’S CLEVER TRICK

“What’s the joke?” demanded Jake Harrison, with a sort of sneer as he
looked at the handcuffs on his wrists. “If this is one of your conjuring
tricks, you’ve come to the wrong shop,” and he glared at the professor.

“It isn’t any trick,” put in Joe, “except that we’ve turned a trick
against you. You’re both under arrest.”

“There! What did I tell you!” whined Burke Denton. “I said if we——”

“Stop your noise!” savagely ordered his companion. “Now then, what does
all this mean?” he went on. “What right have you to arrest us?”

“The right of the law,” put in Sylvester, who seemed to enjoy the role
he was playing. “I’m constable all over Folsom county, and you’re my
prisoners!”

“On what charge?” demanded Harrison. “You keep still!” he directed his
companion as he saw Denton about to speak. “I’ll run this end of the
show. What’s the charge against us?” he asked fiercely.

“Robbing me and my wife of money—about one hundred and forty dollars,”
said the deacon.

“What proof have you?” asked Harrison, sneeringly. “Did you see us take
the money?”

“I saw one of you getting out of the window after the money was gone,”
went on the deacon. This was practically admitting that Joe was not
guilty.

“Which one of us did you see?” asked Harrison.

“I—er—I er——” the deacon hesitated. He could not positively state which
of the twain it was. He had seen no face, and the room was not well
lighted.

“It wasn’t only money that was taken, was it, Deacon?” asked Joe, for he
was now ready to take a hand in the proceedings.

“No. It was securities—papers that you two alone knew the value of,”
said the deacon, quickly. “You took the investment papers, Denton and
Harrison, I’m sure you did!”

Harrison laughed.

“You’ll have to have some better proof than just being sure we did it,”
he said. “That won’t go in law. Now you’d better take these ornaments
off us, and let us go,” he ordered Hen Sylvester. “You haven’t a single
bit of evidence against us, and if you persist in arresting us we’ll sue
for false imprisonment. You haven’t a bit of evidence!”

“Haven’t we? What’s this?” cried Joe Strong, suddenly.

With a quick motion, he drew from an inner pocket of Burke Denton’s coat
a folded bond paper. At the sight of it Denton’s jaw dropped, and even
Harrison’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.

“There’s one of the stolen securities now in your possession,” said Joe
calmly. “Isn’t that evidence enough?”

“How—how did that get in my pocket?” asked Denton. “I thought you had
’em all, Harrison. I told you not to be so careless with ’em, and now——”

“Keep still, can’t you!” fairly yelled the other. “Do you want to put us
in——”

Then he himself stopped, as if conscious that he was saying too much.

Denton had collapsed in his chair. Harrison, also, seemed to have
wilted. There was now practically no doubt of the men’s guilt. Hen
Sylvester locked them up in the local jail until such time as he could
arrange to transfer them to Bedford. Neither of the prisoners protested
any further.

“Say, Joe, how did you know that investment bond was in his pocket?”
asked the constable a little later.

“Because I put it there,” was the reply. “It was the one I took from the
deacon. I thought I might have a use for it. It was just a little
sleight-of-hand work, making it seem as if it came from his pocket.”

“Well, it—it was a good trick,” grudgingly admitted Mr. Blackford.

“Then you don’t think I’m guilty; do you?” asked Joe.

The deacon shook his head. He seemed quite ashamed of himself.

“If I was you, Deacon,” said Hen, in a whisper to the old man, “I’d sort
of beg Joe’s pardon for suspecting him. You know he could make it hot
for you if he wanted to.”

“How?”

“Sue you for false arrest, for humiliating him in a crowd, and all that.
You’d better conciliate him.”

This the deacon did, not altogether willingly.

“I—I’m sorry I tried to have you arrested, Joe,” he said. “I admit I was
wrong in thinking you robbed me.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Joe, easily. He could afford to forgive
now. “It did look a bit suspicious against me for a while. But I’m glad
you have the right men. I don’t want to be in fear of arrest as I travel
about with the professor. And I don’t suppose you want to take me home,
do you?”

“Well, no, perhaps not, under the circumstances,” replied the deacon,
slowly. “I admit that maybe I wasn’t altogether right in the way I
treated you, Joe. But I meant it for the best. You can stay with the
professor, if you like. You seem to be doing well.”

“Indeed he is!” exclaimed Mr. Crabb. “He’s a wonder!”

“Then stay,” the deacon said. The truth was he felt he would be made fun
of if he brought Joe back, after having stated as publicly as he had in
Bedford that he believed his foster-son guilty of the robbery. Besides,
the deacon had to admit that Joe was doing better away from him than
with him.

“Yes, I guess you’d better stay and be one of them trick performers,
though I don’t think much of——”

There is little more to tell of this story. The next morning the deacon
and Hen Sylvester went back to Bedford, taking the two prisoners with
them. Eventually the rascals were convicted of the crime and sent to
jail. The deacon recovered his valuable papers, but not the money. That
had been spent.

“Well, I suppose you will avail yourself of your foster-father’s
permission and remain with me, won’t you?” asked Professor Rosello, at
the conclusion of the next night’s performance, when they were getting
ready to move on to the next town.

“Oh, yes, I’ll stay for a while,” said Joe. “I still have much to
learn.” But, as he said this, he saw in fancy a certain pretty face, and
he beheld a girl riding about a circus ring on a beautiful horse. Joe
thought of Helen Morton, of Benny Turton, the “human fish,” and of the
kind ring-master. Joe was beginning to feel a new and strange pull at
his heart strings.

And how it resulted may be learned by reading the next volume of this
series, to be entitled: “Joe Strong on the Trapeze; or, The Daring Feats
of a Young Circus Performer.”

“What are you thinking of, Joe?” asked the professor as they sat in the
train that night.

“A new trick,” was the answer. “You take a horse named Rosebud and
you——”

“What! A horse on the stage?” cried the professor, in wonder.

“Oh—er—I—I was thinking of something else,” murmured Joe. And so for a
while we will take leave of Joe Strong.

The End

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Joe Strong, the boy wizard: or The mysteries of magic exposed" ***

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