  From time to time during the night, Johnny awoke to listen for a moment to the click-click of the wheels. Once he thought he caught again the play of that crimson flash upon the canvas. Once he remained awake long enough to do a little wondering and planning. How had Pant, his friend of other days, come aboard this circus train? What was he seeking? True, Johnny had received a letter from this strange fellow some time before, in which he spoke in mysterious terms of a three-ring circus and the Secret Service, but Johnny had taken this very much as a joke. What possible connection could there be between circus and Secret Service? Finding the problem impossible of solution, he turned his attention to his own plight. He had started upon a strange journey of which he knew not even the destination. In his pocket was a five-dollar bill and some loose change. He must stick to this circus until he had regained a certain precious bit of jewelry. How was he to do that? One of the three lady circus performers had it, he felt sure, but how was he to find out which one? Should he be so fortunate as to discover this, how was he to regain possession of it? Hedged about as the life of the circus woman is, by those of her own kind, the task seemed impossible, yet somehow it must be done. It had been the utmost folly for Marjory to wear her mother’s engagement ring, set with an immense solitaire, dangling on a chain, when they attended the circus, yet she had done it, and Johnny had promised to watch it. He had kept a sharp lookout, but had been caught unawares when the thief had proved to be an elephant, who doubtless had taken it for something to eat, and, having scratched his trunk upon it, had tossed it to his lady friends of the human species, to see what they thought of it. “Rotten luck!” Johnny grumbled, as he turned over once more to fall asleep. By a succession of sudden stops and starts, by the bumping of cars, and the grinding of brakes, Johnny realized that at last they had come to a stopping place. When the starting and stopping had continued for some time, he knew the city they were entering was a large one. Opening his eyes sleepily, he propped himself up on one elbow and tried to peer about him. It was still dark. A stone wall rose a short distance above the cars on either side. Above and beyond the wall to the left great buildings loomed. From one of these, towering far above the rest, lights gleamed here and there. The others were totally dark. “Big one’s a hotel, rest office buildings,” was Johnny’s mental comment. “But say, where have I seen this before?” Lifting himself to his knees, he looked down the track in the direction they had just come. A tower pointing skyward appeared to have closed in on their wake. Turning, he looked in the opposite direction. A dull gray bulk loomed out of the dark. “Chicago,” he muttered in surprise. “Of all places! We’ve come all the way from that jerk-water city of Amaraza to put on a show in good old Chi. Can’t be a bit of doubt of it, for yonder’s the Auditorium hotel, back there’s the Illinois Central depot, and ahead the Art Institute. Grant Park’s our destination. The situation improves. We’ll have some real excitement. Pant will be tickled pink. “Pant! Oh, Pant!” he whispered hoarsely. “Pant!” He spoke the name aloud. Receiving no answer, he climbed over the canvas piles to the spot where Pant had been. “Gone,” he muttered. “Didn’t think he’d shake me like that!” He dropped into gloomy reflections. What was his next move? He had counted on Pant’s assistance. Now he must go it alone. “Oh, well,” he sighed at last, “I’ll just hang around and let things happen. They generally do.” Before darkness came again things had happened—several things, in which the fortunes of Johnny Thompson rose and fell to rise again like bits of cork on a storm-tossed sea. Before putting his hand on the iron rod to lower himself to the cinder strewn track, he gave himself over to a moment of recollection. He was thinking of this strange fellow, Pant. Again he groped his way in the dark cave in Siberia, with Pant’s all-seeing eye to guide him. Again he fought the Japs in Vladivostok. Again—but I will not recount all his vivid recollections here, for you have doubtless read them in the book called “Panther Eye.” It is enough to say that the incidents of this story proved beyond a doubt that Pant could see in the dark, but as to how and why he was so strangely gifted, that had remained a mystery to the end; and to Johnny Thompson it was to this time as great a mystery as in the beginning. * * * * * * * * Pant had left the circus train at Twenty-second Street. He had drawn his cap down to his dark goggles, and hurrying over to State Street, boarded a north-bound surface car. A half hour later he climbed the last of six flights of stairs, and turning a key in a dusty door, let himself into a room that overlooked the river at Wells Street. This room had been Johnny Thompson’s retreat in those stirring days told of in “Triple Spies.” Johnny had turned the key over to Pant before he left Russia. Pant had renewed the lease, and had, from time to time, as his strangely mysterious travels led through Chicago, climbed the stairs to sit by the window and reflect, or to throw himself upon the bed and give himself over to many hours of sleep. At present he was not in need of sleep. Swinging the blinds back without the slightest sound, he drew a chair to the window and, dropping his chin in his cupped hands, fell into deep reflection. His inscrutable, mask-like face seemed a blank. Only twice during two hours did the muscles relax. Each time it was into a cat-like smile. Just before these moments of amusement there had appeared upon the river, far below, a broad patch of crimson light. * * * * * * * * Morning before the circus performance is like the wash of a receding tide. Dull gray fog still lingers in the air. In front of the ropes that exclude visitors a few curiosity seekers wander up and down, but it is behind these lines, on behind the kitchen, mess, and horse tents that the real denizens of the fog are to be found. Here a host of attaches of the circus, and those not definitely attached, wander about like beasts in their cages, or engage in occupations of doubtful character. Here are to be found in great numbers the colored razor-backs, mingled with the white men of that profession. Stake drivers, rope pullers, venders of peanuts and pop, mingle with the motley crowd of sharp-witted gentry who, like vultures following a victorious army, live in the wake of a prosperous circus. Later, all these would sleep, but for the moment, like owls and bats, they cling to the last bit of morning fog. It was down this much trodden “gold coast” at the back door of the circus that Johnny Thompson found himself walking. He had taken his coffee and fried eggs at a restaurant that backed “Boul Mich.” He was now in search of Pant, also hoping for things to turn up, which, presently, they did. So Johnny sauntered slowly along the broad walk bordering the Lake Front park. Here and there he paused to study the faces of men who sat munching their breakfast. Faces always interested him, and besides, he knew full well that some of the sharpest as well as the lowest criminals follow a circus. His course was soon arrested by the hoarse half whisper of a man to the right of him. About this man—a white man—was gathered a knot of other men. “Five, if you pick the black card. Try your luck! Try it, brother. Five dollars, if you pick the lucky card.” These were the words the man whispered. Johnny edged his way to the center of the group. In shady places at the back of great country picnics, or in secluded sheds at county fairs, he had seen this game played many a time, but to find it in a Chicago park seemed unbelievable. Yet, here it was. A broad shouldered man, with an irregular mouth and a ragged ear, evidently badly mauled in some fight, stood with a newspaper held flat before him. On the paper, face down, were three ordinary playing cards. The slim, tapering fingers of the man played over the cards, as a pianist’s fingers play over the keys. Now he gathered them all up to toss them one by one, face up, on the paper. “See, gents; two reds and a black! Watch it! There it is! There it is! Now, there! Five dollars, if you pick the lucky card! Five to me if you lose.” He shot an inquiring glance toward Johnny. Johnny remained silent. A short, stout man thrust a five dollar bill into the conman’s hand. His trembling fingers turned a card. It was red. With an oath he struggled out of the ring. “Can’t hit it always, brother,” a smirky smile overspread the conman’s face. “Well, now, I’ll make it easy. There it is! Leave it there. Who will try? Who will try?” A young man wearing a green tie passed over a ten dollar bill. “Make it all or nothing. All or nothing,” chuckled the operator. The youth grinned. His confident finger picked the card. It was black. “You win, brother, you win. I told you. Now, who’ll win next?” Again he shot a glance at Johnny. Again Johnny was silent. Twice more the game was played. Each time the conman lost. “Everybody wins this morning.” The conman’s fingers played with the cards, and in playing bent the corner of the black card ever so slightly upward. Johnny’s keen eyes saw it. When the card was turned, he had picked it right. Five times in imaginary plays the conman tossed the cards down and gathered them up. Each time Johnny’s eye, following the bent card, told him he was right. Six times he picked the black card correctly. Was the conman drunk? He thought not. His keen eyes studied the circle of faces. Then he laughed. “Where do you think it is?” The conman bantered. Johnny pointed a finger at the bent card. “Why don’t you bet?” Johnny laughed again. “I bate.” A Swede standing near Johnny thrust out a five dollar bill. He won. “See?” jeered the conman. “You’re no sport. You’re a coward.” He leered at Johnny. Johnny’s cheek turned a shade redder, but he only smiled. Again the Swede bet and won. Again the conman had the word “coward” on his lips. He did not say it. Johnny was speaking. There was a cold smile on his lips. “I can tell you one thing, stranger,” Johnny squared his shoulders, “I’m not in the habit of allowing men to call me a coward. I’ll tell you why I don’t play your rotten game, then I’ll tell you something else. That man, and that one, and that one and this Swede are your cappers. You had twenty-five dollars between you when I came. You got five from that stranger who left. When one of your cappers won, he passed the money from hand to hand until it came back to you. If they lost it’s the same. A stranger has about as much chance with a bunch like you as a day-old chick has in the middle of the Atlantic. But say, stranger, you called me a coward. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You’ve got me topped by seventy-five pounds, and you think you know how to handle your dukes. I’ll box you three rounds, and if you touch my face in any round, I’ll give you a five-case note, the last one I have. Not bet, see! Just give! You can’t lose; you may win. What say?” The conman’s lips parted, but no sound came. The eyes of his pals and cappers were upon him. “You wouldn’t let the little runt bluff y’,” suggested the young capper of the green tie. “Oh—all, all right, brother.” The conman’s voice stuck in his throat. “All right. Somebody fetch the gloves.” A boxing match, or even a free-for-all, is not so uncommon on the back lines of a circus, but it never fails to draw a crowd. It was upon this inevitable crowd that Johnny counted for his backing, should the three rounds turn into a rough and tumble, with no mercy and no quarter. Once his gloves were on, he explained to the rapidly growing circle the terms of the match. “There’s no referee, so all of you are it,” he smiled. “Right-O. We’re wid ye,” a genial Irishman shouted. “Go to it, kid,” a sturdy stake driver echoed. “Are you ready?” Johnny moved his gloves to a position not ten inches from his body. With fists well extended, the conman leaped across the ring. The blow he aimed at Johnny’s head would have felled an ox, had it landed. It did not land. Johnny had sprung to one side. The next instant he tapped the conman on his ragged ear. This appeared to infuriate his antagonist. Perhaps it served to bring back memories of another battle in which he had been worsted. His rage did him neither service nor credit. Time and again he bounded at the elusive Johnny, to find himself fanning air. Time and again Johnny tapped that ragged ear. The conman landed not a single blow. When, after three minutes, a man called time, and the two paused to take a breath, the plaudits were all for Johnny. As he rested, the beady eyes of the conman narrowed to slits. He was thinking, planning. He had not scored on the first bout, the second would see him a winner. Instantly upon re-entering the ring he rushed Johnny for a clinch. Taken by surprise, the boy could not avoid it. Yet, even here, he was more than a match for his heavier opponent. Gripping hard with his left, he rained blows on the other’s back, just above the kidney. That, in time, made a break welcome. The conman’s game was to clinch, then to force his opponent back to a position where he could land his right on Johnny’s chin. This would win his point. More than that, it would enable him to break Johnny’s neck, if he chose, and he might so decide. Three times he clinched. Three times he received trip-hammer blows on his back, and three times he gave way before his plucky opponent. When, at last, time was called, he fairly reeled to his corner. There was a dangerous light in his eye as he stepped up for the third round. “Watch him, kid. He’ll do you dirt,” muttered the Irishman. “Keep your guard,” echoed another. Johnny, still smiling, moved forward. His face was well guarded. He was confident of victory. Twice the conman feinted with his right, struck out with his left, then retired. The third time he rushed straight on. Johnny easily dodged his blows, but the next second doubled up in a knot. Groaning and panting for breath he fell to the earth. Eagerly the conman leaped forward. His glove had barely touched Johnny’s cheek when a grip of iron pulled him back. “There’s no referee. Then I’m one. An Irishman for a square scrap.” It was Johnny’s ardent backer. Panting, the conman stood at bay. In time, Johnny, having regained his breath, sat up dizzily and looked about. “Where’s the five?” demanded the conman. Johnny held up his right glove. “I leave it to the crowd if he gets it fair.” “He fouled you wid his knee! He jammed it into yer stummick! A rotten trick as ever was played!” yelled the Irishman. “Right-O! Sure! Sure! Kill him! Eat him alive!” came from every corner. Johnny rose. “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!” |
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