“We’ll finish the round,” he said quietly.
“Keep your money,” grumbled the conman.
“No! No! No!” came from a hundred throats, for by this time a dense mob was packed about the improvised ring. Chairs, benches and barrels had been dragged up. On these men stood looking over the shoulders of those in front.
Like an enraged bull the conman stood at bay.
“All right,” he laughed savagely. “We’ll finish it quick.”
He leaped squarely at Johnny. Johnny’s whole body seemed to stiffen, then to rise. Springing full ten inches from the ground and ten inches forward, he shot out his glove. There came the thudding impact of a master-blow.
The conman rose slightly in the air, then reeled backward into the mob. The point of his chin had come in contact with Johnny’s fist.
With characteristic speed, Johnny threw off the gloves, seized his coat and lost himself in the crowd.
He was not ashamed of his part in the affair, far from that. He knew he had given the crook only that which he richly deserved. He was not, however, at that moment looking for publicity, and escape was the only way to avoid it.
In eluding the crowd he was singularly successful. By dodging about the horse tent, and rounding the mess tent, he was able to make his way directly to the shore of the lake. Here he walked rapidly south until he found himself alone. Throwing himself upon the ground, for ten minutes he watched the small breakers coil and recoil upon the shore. Rising, he lifted his laughing blue eyes to the sunshine. Then, scooping up hands-full of the clear lake water, he bathed his face, his chest, his arms.
“Boy! Boy!” he breathed, as he beat his chest dry. “It’s sure good to be alive!”
A moment later his face clouded. “But how about that diamond ring? Oh, you sparkler, come to your daddy!”
With this, he repaired to the show site.
On returning to the rear of the circus tents, he was surprised to be accosted at once by a smooth-shaven, sturdy man with a clean, clear look in his eye.
“You’re the boy that’s so handy with his mitts?”
Johnny had a mind to run for it, but one look into those clear eyes told him this would be folly.
“That’s what they say,” he smiled.
“Shake! I like you for that.” The stranger extended his hand.
Johnny gripped it warmly.
“The way you handled that conman wasn’t bad; not half-bad. You’re a sport; a regular one! The circus boys like a good sport; the real chaps do. How’d you like a job?”
“A—a job?” Johnny stammered. “What kind?”
“Circus job.”
“What kind?” Johnny repeated.
“What can you do?”
“I—I—” suddenly Johnny had an inspiration. “Why, I’m the best little groom there is in three states. I could shine up those fat bareback horses of yours till you’d take them for real plate glass.”
“Could you? I believe you could, and you’re going to have a chance. Millie Gonzales’ three mounts have been neglected of late.”
Millie Gonzales! Johnny caught his breath. He had gone fishing and caught a whale the first cast. Millie Gonzales was one of the three circus girls at whose feet the diamond ring had dropped. Perhaps she was the one who had picked it up; who held it among her possessions now. He would know.
“When can I go to work?” he asked unsteadily.
“Right now. I’ll take you over to the stables. Stable boss’ll give you a suit and some unionalls. You shape up the three and have ’em ready for Millie by two o’clock, in time for the grand parade.”
“Of all the luck!” Johnny whispered into the ear of a sleek, broad backed gray a half hour later. “To think that I should have fallen into this at the very start! Perhaps Millie has it. Perhaps she’s wearing it on one of those tapering fingers of hers at this very moment. Is she, old boy? Is she?”
The horse looked at him with eyes that said nothing.
“You won’t tell,” Johnny bantered. “Well, then, I’ll have to find out for myself. Come on, you two o’clock!”
Pant did not return to the neighborhood of the circus grounds until darkness had fallen. Then it was only to go skulking along the beach, and to perch himself at last, owl-like, on a huge pile of sand which overlooked a particular stretch of the beach on which a huge fire of driftwood had been built. The fire had died down now to a great, glowing bed of coals. About the fire eight negroes were seated.
“Razor-backs from the circus,” was Pant’s mental comment. “Something doing!”
So filled with their own thoughts were the minds of the colored gentlemen that they had failed to note Pant’s arrival. Seated there in the darkness, motionless as an owl watching for the move of a mouse, his mask-like face expressionless, his slim, tapering fingers still, Pant appeared but a part of the dull drab scenery.
“Hey, Brother Mose; time to carb de turkey-buzzard,” chuckled one of the darkies.
“Brother Mose” turned half about, stretched out a fat hand and drew toward him a thin object wrapped in a newspaper.
“Sambo,” he commanded, “leave me have dat cleavah!”
Sambo handed over a butcher’s cleaver.
The next instant the package was unwrapped, revealing a clean, white strip of meat, which had at one time been half the broad back of a porker.
“Po’k chops!” murmured Mose.
“Um! Um! Um!” came in a chorus.
“Ya-as, sir. Now you-all jes’ stir up dem coals, an’ put dem sweet ’taters roastin’, while I does the slicin’ an’ de cleavin’.” Mose drew a butcher knife from his hip pocket.
From a second bulging package on the beach, two of his comrades drew shining yellow tubers, while others stirred up the coals, and raked some out to a circular hole in the sand, which had previously been lined with ashes. Having tossed the coals in, they covered them lightly with ashes, at the same time calling:
“Le’s hab dem ’taters!”
All this time with no observer save the unsuspected Pant, Mose was operating skillfully on that pork loin. With a slab of drift wood as chopping block, he sliced away with the skill of a hotel butcher. In a twinkle, the chops lay neatly piled in heaps on the slab. Then, while no one was looking, he caused a liberal handful of the chops to disappear into the huge pocket at the back of his coat.
Pant’s lips curved in a smile. “Holding out,” he whispered.
“Dere dey is,” exulted Mose, like a rooster calling his brood to a meal. “Dere dem po’k chops is, all carved an’ cleaned an’ ready fo’ de roastin’.”
“Um, um, um,” chanted his companions in gurgling approval.
Whence had come these pork chops? This question did not trouble Pant. They might have been bought at a butcher shop; then again, they might have been stolen. It was enough for Pant that they were there. He was glad. Not that he hoped to “horn in” on the feast; he had eaten bountifully but an hour before. Nevertheless, he was glad to be here. This little festal occasion suited his purpose beautifully. He had hoped something like this might be going on down here. The pork chops stowed away in Mose’s pocket amused him. As he thought of them his former plan changed slightly, his lips twisted in a smile.
“It’s all plain enough,” he thought to himself. “Moses and old Lankyshanks, his buddie, have a half hour longer to loaf than the rest of them; that gives them time for a little extra feast. The supplies belong to them all alike, but Mose and Lankyshanks get double portions if—” Here he smiled again.
The preparation for the feast went on. Each man twisted out of tangled wire a rude but serviceable broiler. They joked and laughed as they worked, their dark faces shining like ebony.
“Po’k chops, po’k chops, po’k chops! Um! Um! Um!” they chanted now and then.
In time word was passed around the circle, and then eight right hands shot out and eight broilers hung out over the coals.
Snapping and sputtering, flaring up with a sudden burning of grease, whirled now this way, now that, the pork chops rapidly turned a delicious brown. The odor which rose in air would have made a chronic dyspeptic’s mouth water.
“Po’k chops, po’k chops, po’k chops! Um! Um! Um!”
Twice Pant lifted his eyes toward the stars. Twice he brought them down again.
“Haven’t got the heart to do it,” he whispered to himself; “I’ll take a chance and wait.”
The sweet potatoes had been dug from the roasting pit; the feasters had sunk their teeth deep in juicy fat, when Pant was suddenly startled by a groan close at hand.
Without moving, he turned his head to see a colored boy sitting near him.
Recognizing the round, close-cropped bullet head as one belonging not to the circus, but to South Water Street, he leaned over and whispered:
“’Lo, Snowball, what y’ doin’ here?”
“Same’s you, I reckon.” The boy showed all his teeth in a grin. “Jes’ sittin’ an’ a-wishin’, dat’s all.”
“Pork chops, huh?”
“Ain’t it so, Mister? Ain’t dem the grandes’ you ain’t most never smelt?”
“Sh, not so loud,” cautioned Pant. “Maybe there’ll be some for you yet. Sort of reserve rations.”
“Think so, mebby?”
Pant nodded.
Then together they sat in silence while the feast went on; sat till the last bone and potato skin had been thrown upon the fast dulling coals.
“Huh!” sighed Snowball. “Hain’t no mo’.”
He half rose to go, but Pant pulled him back to his seat. Six of the colored gentlemen were wiping their hands on greasy bandanas, and were preparing to depart.
“Reckon me and Lanky’ll jes’ res’ here for a while,” grunted Mose.
“Eh-heh,” assented Lankyshanks.
The six had hardly disappeared over the hill when Lankyshanks’ eyes popped wide open.
“’Mergency rations,” he whispered.
With a grunt of satisfaction, Mose handed three pork chops to Lankyshanks, wired his own three to his broiler, stirred up the fire, then began slowly revolving the sputtering chops over the sparkling embers.
For fully five minutes Pant and Snowball, on the sand pile, watched in silence—a silence broken only by an occasional, half audible sigh from Snowball.
The chops were done to a brown finish when Pant suddenly fixed his gaze intently upon the big dipper which hung high in the heavens.
At that precise instant, Mose, uttering a groan not unlike that of a dying man, threw his broiler high in air, rolled over backward, turned two somersaults, then stumbling to his feet, ran wildly down the beach. Having dropped his chops on the coals, Lanky followed close behind. The expression of utter terror written on their faces was something to see and marvel at.
Pant still gazed skyward. Snowball gripped his arm, and whispered tensely:
“Lawdy, Mister! Look’a dere!”
Pant removed his gaze from the heavens and looked where Snowball pointed, at the bed of dying embers.
“What was it, Snowball?” he drawled. “Why! Where are our friends?”
“Dey done lef’,” whispered Snowball, still gripping his arm. “An’ so ’ud you. It’s a ha’nt, er a sign, er sumthin’. Blood. It was red, lak blood. All red. Dem fellers was red, an’ dem po’k chops, an’ dat sand, all red lak blood.”
“Pork chops,” said Pant slowly.
“Yes, sir, po’k chops an’ everything. I done heard dat Mose say it were a sign. Dey’s be a circus wreck, er sumthin’. Train wreck of dat dere circus.”
“Pork chops,” said Pant again thoughtfully. “Where did the pork chops go? Why! There is one broiler full on the wood pile. They must have left it there for you.”
“No, sir! Dat Mose done throwed it dere. Dat’s how scared he was.”
“They won’t be back, I guess; so you’d better just warm them up a bit and sit up to the table.”
Terror still lurked in Snowball’s eyes, but in his nostrils still lingered the savory smell of pork chops. The pork chops won out and he was soon feasting royally.
“Snowball,” said Pant when the feast was finished, “would you like to earn a little money?”
“Would I? Jes’ try me, Mister!”
“All right. I want five Liberty Bonds, the fifty-dollar kind. A lot of those circus fellows have them, and some of them will sell them, maybe cheap. Don’t pay more than forty-five for any. Get them for thirty-nine, if you can. The cheap ones are the kind I want. Here’s the money. Don’t bet it, don’t lose it, and don’t let any of those crooks touch you for it. It will take you a little time to find the bonds. I’ll meet you right here in two hours.”
Snowball rolled his eyes. “Boss, I sho’ am grateful fo’ th’ compliment, but I is plum scared at all dat money.”
“Nobody’ll hurt you or take it from you. You’re honest. If you do lose it, I’ll forgive you. Good-by.”
Pant strode rapidly down the beach, leaving Snowball to make his way back to the circus grounds in quest of thirty-nine dollar Liberty Bonds, an article which, if he had but known it, has never existed in legitimate channels of business.
After leaving Pant, Snowball divided the money he had been given for the purpose of purchasing Liberty Bonds into five little rolls. These he deposited in five different pockets about his ragged trousers and coat.
“Dere now,” he muttered; “dey won’t nobody snatch it all from me at oncet.”
He first wandered down the back ropes, accosting here and there a colored gentleman who looked as if he might be the proud possessor of a bond.
Some laughed at this bullet-headed youngster, who claimed to be in possession of enough money to purchase a “sho’ nuff” Liberty Bond. Others, with prying eyes, leered at his pockets. These he gave a wide berth. An hour of this sort of thing netted him two bonds at forty-two dollars each.
“Huh,” he grunted at last, “these here colored circus folks sho’ am plum short on Liberty Bonds. Reckon I’se gwine try some white mans.”
Making his way boldly out to the front of the circus, where a thin crowd filtered in and out, here and there, some few drifting into the side shows, he made straight for a man in uniform who guarded the entrance to the big tent.
“Say, Mister, you all got any Liberty Bonds to sell?”
“Liberty Bonds?” The man started and stared. “Who wants ’em?”
“Me. I do, Mister.”
“Say!” The man bent low and whispered. “You see that man selling tickets in front of the big side show, by the picture of the fat lady?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s got some. Bought them this morning, cheap. Mebbe he’ll sell them to you.”
“Thank ye, Mister.”
Snowball was away like a flash.
“Liberty Bonds?” said the ticket hawker of the black mustache. “How many?”
“I might buy one, if it’s cheap, mebbe.”
“How cheap?”
“How much you all want?”
“Forty dollars.”
Snowball shook his head, “Thirty-nine. That’s all I’m payin’ jes’ now.” His hand was in his right trousers pocket.
“Let’s see yer money.”
Snowball stepped back a discreet distance, then displayed two twenty-dollar bills.
“All right, let’s have ’em.”
“Let’s see dat Liberty Bond.”
“All right.” The man dug into his inner vest pocket, produced a flat envelope from which he extracted a square of paper.
“Here it is.”
Snowball inspected it closely. “Dat’s all right, Mister. I git a dollar back.”
The ticket seller peeled a one-dollar bill from a bulky roll and the deal was closed.
“Say, Mister,” said Snowball, rolling his eyes, “I might buy another one, same price.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
Snowball grinned.
Again the deal was closed.
Snowball put his hand into his left hip pocket and repeated his declaration:
“Say, Mister, I might buy jes’ one more.”
For a second time the man’s eyes rested on him with suspicion lurking in their depths.
“Say, boy, who you buying these for?”
“Fo’ me, mysef.”
“All right, Mr. First National Bank, here you are.”
The deal was quickly closed and Snowball hastened away, happy in the realization that he had accomplished the task set for him.
Making his way to the beach, he found Pant sprawled out on the sand, half asleep.
“Did you get them?” the white man asked drowsily.
“Ya-as, sir. Here dey is.” Snowball held out the five bonds. “An’ here’s de change.”
Pant sat up, suddenly all alert.
“You got three for thirty-nine?”
“Ya-as, sir.”
“Let’s have a look.”
Pant’s slender fingers trembled as he spread the five squares of paper out upon the sand.
“Good!” he muttered. “You got them all right. Now look at them all. Snowball. See any difference in ’em?” He held a lighted match above the bonds.
Snowball studied them as intently as his roving eyes would allow.
“No, no, sir, I don’t.”
“These two. Look different, don’t they?”
“No, no, sir; I can’t say dat.”
“You’re blind,” grunted Pant. “Two of them are paler than the others; ink is not so dark. See? Not quite.”
“Oh, yas, ya-as, sir.”
“Now those two pale face bonds were folded up with one other. Remember where you got them?” Pant’s eyes flashed through his thick glasses.
“No, no, Oh, ya-as, ya-as, sir, I do. It were dat ’ere white man; sellin’ tickets, he was.”
“Good! Now here’s a dollar. That’s for you. You’ll get another when you come back. You take these two pale face bonds to the ticket seller and ask him where he got them.”
“Ya-as, sir.”
Full of wonder at the strange doings of this odd fellow with the black glasses, Snowball hurried back to the ticket seller.
“Say, Mister,” he demanded, “whar’d y’ git these pale face bonds?”
“What?” The man stared at him.
“Whar y’ git ’em?” Snowball held them up for inspection.
“Let’s see.” The man made a grab for them.
“Nem’ min’.” The boy darted away.
“Who wants to know?” the man demanded gruffly.
“Me, myself.”
“I can’t tell exactly. I bought two from Tom Stick, the midget clown, three from Andy McQueen, the steam kettle cook, and two more from a bunco-steerer—feller with a bite taken out of his ear. I don’t know which ones those are.
“Say, boy!” The expression on his face suddenly changed. “You let me have them bonds.”
“No-o, sir!”
Snowball dashed away in sudden fright. With the ticket seller close on his heels, he dodged around a fat woman, nearly collided with a baby carriage, leaped the tent ropes. Like a jack rabbit, he scooted beneath the ponderous wagons on which rested the electric light plant of the circus, and, at last, dodging through the mess tent, succeeded in eluding his pursuer.
He was still breathing hard when he reached the place of rendezvous on the beach.
“What did he say?” demanded Pant.
“He said he bought some from dat midget clown, an’ some from a steam kettle cook, an’ some from a bunco-man wid a chewed ear. Say, Mister, do I get dat oder dollar?”
Pant held it out to him. “What you puffing about?”
“Dat ticket man chased me.”
“What for?”
“Don’t know, boss.”
For a moment they were silent.
“Say, Boss,” Snowball whispered after a time, “what you s’pose made dat ere red splotch on the groun’?”
“What red spot?” There was a suspicion of a smile lurking about the corner of Pant’s mouth.
“Man! Don’ you know? ’Roun’ dat fiah?”
“Oh, yes; I wasn’t looking just then.”
“Say, Boss!” The boy was whispering again. “I ain’t afraid of almost nuthin’—nuthin’ but signs and ghosts. You s’pose dat were a sign?”
“It might have been.”
“An’ say, Boss, what’s dem colored fellers sayin’ ’bout a wreck? Don’ mean that ere circus train’s gwine wreck? Man, that’d be some kind of a wreck! Tigers fightin’ b’ars, lions eatin’ elephants, snakes a-crawlin’ loose, wild cats a-clawin’, an monkeys screamin’! Man! Oh, man!”
For a full minute Snowball sat silent, wild-eyed and staring at the mental picture he had conjured up. Then a sudden thought struck him.
“Say, Boss, dis am circus day ain’t it? An’ I got two dollars I jes’ earned and ain’t spent, ain’t I? Boss, I’se gone right now!”
And he was.
For a long time Pant sat there in contemplative silence. Finally, with one hand he smoothed out the sand before him. On this, with his finger, he spelled out the name: BLACKIE McCREE.
Then, with a quick glance about him, as if afraid it had been seen, he erased the letters.
* * * * * * * *
When Johnny Thompson had been introduced to the stable boss and had been given his assignment, he lost no time in getting on a suit of unionalls and was soon at work sleeking down his three broad backed dapple grays.
It was a long task, painstakingly done, for Johnny loved horses and these three were among the finest in the circus.
His mind, however, was not always on his brush and cloth. In the grand parade, which, in Chicago did not leave the tent, but circled about in the mammoth enclosure, while the vast crowds cheered, Millie Gonzales rode standing on these three fat chargers, that, with tossing manes and champing bits, seemed at every moment ready to break her control and go rushing down the arena. Johnny was to take the horses to the entrance of the big tent. That much he had been told. Would he there turn them over to Millie? And would she be wearing the missing ring? The answers to these questions he could only guess.
It was with a wildly beating heart that he at last led his three horses down the narrow canvas enclosure which led to the great tent. Already the procession was forming. Here a group of clowns waited in silence. Here a great gilded chariot rumbled forward, and here a trained elephant was being fitted with his rider’s canopied seat.
By this director, then that one, Johnny was guided to the spot from which his three dapple grays would start.
He had hardly reached the position than a high-pitched, melodious, but slightly scornful, voice said:
“Why! Who are you? Where’s Peter?”
“Who’s Peter?” asked Johnny, doffing his cap respectfully, but studying the girl’s hands the meanwhile.
“Why, he’s my groom.”
“Begging your pardon, he’s not; I am.”
“You?” She stood back and surveyed him with unveiled scorn. “You? A little shrimp like you?”
Johnny was angry. Hot words rushed to his lips but remained unspoken. He was playing a big game. For the time he must repress his pride.
“I—I—” Millie stormed on, “I like a big groom, a strong one. I shall see about this.”
“Oh!” smiled Johnny, “if it’s strength you want, I guess you’ll find me there. And for horses, I know how to groom them.”
Millie cast an appraising eye over the grays. “Did you do that?”
“Yes, please.”
“They’re wonderful!”
Lifting a dainty foot, she waited for Johnny’s palm. Once it rested securely there, she gave a little spring and would have landed neatly on the first gray’s back, had not Johnny suddenly shot his arm upward. As it was, she rose straight in the air three feet above the horses to land squarely on the middle one of the three.
She landed fairly on her feet. A whip sang through the air. She had aimed a vicious blow at Johnny’s cheek. There was a wild flare of anger in her eye.
Dodging out of her reach, Johnny stood trembling for fear he had foolishly wasted his grand chance.
Presently the girl’s lips curved in a half disdainful smile.
“You are an impudent fellow, and I should have some one thrash you.
“You are strong, though,” she went on, “and because of that, I’ll forgive you. In the future, however, remember that I am Millie Gonzales and you are my groom.”
Johnny nodded gravely. The procession moved forward. Millie passed from his view.
After calmly reviewing the situation, one fact stood out in bold relief in Johnny’s mind: If it were Millie Gonzales who had the ring, his task was to be a difficult one, for she was a keen, crafty, high-tempered, unscrupulous Spaniard, who would stop at nothing to gain her end.
“Well, anyway,” he decided, “if she has it, she is not wearing it. It’s not on her hand. Here’s hoping it’s one of the other two.”
He moved to a position where he could watch the parade. For a full three minutes his eyes swept it from end to end. Out of it all—the troop of elephants, the brass band, the clowns, the performers, the many strange carts and chariots—one figure stood supreme: A girl who rode high on a throne, mounted upon a great chariot, escorted by six footmen, and drawn by six prancing chargers.
“The queen of the circus!” he thought. “I wonder who she is.”
Johnny had hardly spoken the words when, for a second, the girl’s smiling face was turned his way. He caught his breath sharply. “She’s one of the three,” he gasped. “If it is she who has the ring—”
He did not finish, for just then the van of the procession entered the wing, and he slipped away behind the canvas to await Millie Gonzales and the three grays.
“Say pard,” he whispered to a circus hand standing beside him, “who’s this queen of the circus?”
“Don’t you know?” the other asked in surprise. “That’s Gwen Maysfield, the tight-rope dancer. A regular sport she is, too; can box like a man. Packs a wallop, too. I’ve seen her knock this fellow who boxes the bear clean over the ropes.”
“Boxes the bear?”
“Sure. Don’t you know the act? Feller’s got a bear; rides bicycles, and all that. One of his stunts is to put on the gloves with the big silver-gray. Of course it’s a frost. Bear could knock him a mile, if he wanted to.”
Johnny said no more, but soon began piecing together his bits of information. Gwen was the queen of the circus. She was also one of the three at whose feet the diamond ring had dropped. She liked boxing. If only he could manage to get a few rounds with her, that might break down the social barrier that stood between them. Then he could ask her about the ring. But she was the queen, and he only a groom. How was he to manage it? She boxed with the performer who boxed the bear. Perhaps he could make the acquaintance of this bear boxer.
The time was approaching when Millie and her three grays were to go on. He hastened away to his work.
That night in the animal tent, while the exhibition was in full swing, while thousands were crowding before the long line of cages, there occurred a strange and startling incident; a cage plainly marked BLACK LEOPARD had appeared, in the uncertain light of night, entirely empty.
“Guess that’s a fake,” a spectator grumbled.
“What is it?” asked a child.
“Says ‘Black Pussy,’” smiled the father, “but I guess there isn’t any.”
“Oh, Papa, I want to see the black pussy!” wailed the child, clinging to the ropes, and refusing to move along.
The father was striving to quiet the child when, of a sudden, a flash of crimson light brought out the dark corners of the cage in bold relief. It was gone in a twinkling, but in that time a raging fury of black fur, flashing claws and gleaming eyes leaped against the bars.