  That same night, by the dull glow of a half burned out camp fire on the bank of a river, Pant told Johnny of his plans as a Secret Service man on a big case, and how they had worked out thus far. “You remember the crimson flash in the animal tent, and how it frightened a lot of the colored boys into jumping their jobs?” he chuckled. “Well, that helped me, helped me a lot; for you see some of the boys that quit were working for this bunch of counterfeiters that has Black McCree as its head. Some of the boys that were hired were already getting pay from Uncle Sam for helping me. Some of them now are getting triple pay, once from the circus, once from me and once from the counterfeiters. See how it works?” Pant chuckled again. “These boys with the three pay checks have helped me a lot, but not enough. They can’t get back far enough. They know only the men who pass the bonds on to them, and those men are just helpers like themselves. They pass the goods on, but the real man is still back in the shadows; too far back for me to see him. He’s the man I want; the man and his outfit; and let me tell you, Johnny, that’s some outfit. There’s never been anything like it before. It’s a danger. Where and when they operate is more than I know. They could hardly do it in one of the tents. They might do it in one of the cars, and it might be Tom, the midget clown, doing it in his house on wheels.” “I’ve talked with him,” said Johnny quickly. “I don’t believe he’s in on it.” “Don’t be too sure. Take no chances. If he’s especially friendly, that may mean that he is onto the fact that you’re working with me and that I’m after them. A bunch like that would stab you in the back in a second.” For a few minutes there was silence, then Pant continued: “We are making some progress. We know about how much of the ‘queer’ they are peddling in these towns, and take my word, it’s a plenty. They are planting it thick. We’ve got to get ’em, and get ’em quick. Have you talked with Andy McQueen, the steam kettle cook, yet?” “No, not yet.” “Do it to-morrow. He may be important. And Johnny,” Pant leaned forward with an impressive gesture, “Johnny, watch your step. You’re in danger every moment. They may know you’re with me; probably do, and if they do, they’ll get you if they can. That’s all. Goodnight.” Rising, he stretched himself like a cat, then went slouching away into the darkness. For a long time Johnny lay there on the sand dreamily gazing into the fire. It was, indeed, a tangled web of mystery the unraveling of which he had let himself in for, and one which, as Pant had suggested, might at any moment suddenly break and let him down with an awful fall. There was the ring. Gwen had it that morning; Millie had it two days before; perhaps Mitzi had it at this very moment. He was still surprised at himself because of his action of that morning. Well, he must have that ring. This, if for no other reason, must hold him to his surprising circus career. He wondered if Gwen were serious about the clown stunt and, if so, whether she would soon have it arranged. He thought again of Pant’s problem, and wondered for the hundredth time if he should have any part in its solving. But the greatest mystery of all was the crimson flash. He had seen it leap down from the air and turn the tiger, loose in the big tent, blood red. He had seen it do the same thing in the animal tent. In his suggestion regarding the direction of the sun’s rays in the Arctic, Pant had intimated that rays of light could be made to follow crooked paths. If this could be done, if Pant held within his fertile brain the secret of this terrible power, what a wonderful fellow he was! How it would transform modern life, modern warfare! Trenches would be utterly useless once a light might be thrown upon them from any angle. Many things that were dark, secret and hidden in every day life would be clear as the light of day. What dark corner, what secret rendezvous, would be safe from the glare of those crooked rays of gleaming light? Johnny pondered until his head whirled, then, rising and shaking himself, he made his way to the sleeping car in which he now bunked. The circus would soon be on its way to the next small city. That next small city, if Johnny had but known it, was only ten miles from the home of the grandparents of the millionaire twins. They had ridden cross country for a visit to their grandparents. Along the roads they had seen glaring posters announcing the coming of the circus. They had decided at once that now was the time to join that circus. Their circus riding clothes were in the trunk, which had been sent on by express. Even as Johnny rose from beside the fire, the twins, in their beds at their grandfather’s rambling, old house, were planning how, on the morrow, they would slip on their circus garb underneath their dresses, and ride away to discover their old friend, Johnny, and join the parade. Morning broke bright and clear on the old fair grounds of Rokford, which was the place of the great circus’ next one day stand. When Johnny had eaten breakfast, he strolled past the cooking tent and, having paused to admire the row of shining copper steam kettles, he thought of his promise to get in touch with the manager of these kettles. The cook was not in sight at that moment, so Johnny paused to study these great vats, which resembled nothing so much as giant kettle drums. “Just a twist of the valve and the steam does the rest,” he murmured to himself. “Great, ain’t they?” a voice said at his elbow. “Sure are.” Johnny turned about. It was the cook. A tall, slender man, well past middle age, with a drooping mustache, and a wrinkled smile, he studied Johnny from head to toe. “You’re a boxer,” he said, getting his smile into operation. “Saw you box a conman once. Been wonderin’ ever since how such a small fellow could pack such a wallop.” “I don’t mind tellin’ you,” said Johnny. “It’s absurdly simple. Instead of just getting the force of your arm muscles into the blow, or the push of your shoulder, you leap as you strike, and that puts the whole of your body back of your mitt. That’s easy, isn’t it?” “I suppose it is, after you been doin’ it a few thousand times; easy as fryin’ flapjacks.” “How long have you been cooking with steam kettles?” asked Johnny. “Only five or six years. But I’ve been cookin’ all my life. I was cook for a surveying outfit when the Union Pacific was built. Boy! Those were the days of real sport. Used to run out of fuel and everything.” A humorous twinkle lurked about the man’s eyes, as he lighted his pipe and sat down on an upturned bucket. “I mind one time,” he mused, “when we was plumb out of wood, and nothin’ but grass; prairie all ’round us. Just enough fire to make coffee; not enough to fry flapjacks, and the nearest supply station thirty miles away.” “What did you do?” asked Johnny. “Well, sir,” the cook removed his pipe and spat on the ground, “I said, ‘Boys, there’ll be flapjacks for breakfast just the same.’ I mixed ’em up as usual in a big tin bucket. I gave the bucket to one of the boys, and a hunk of bacon rind to another, and told ’em all to follow me. I struck a match and set the prairie grass on fire; then I held my fryin’ pan over it until it was hot. I baked the first flapjack and tossed it out of the pan over my shoulder. Some fellow caught and ate it. I did another and another the same way, and kept that up until every fellow in the bunch was satisfied.” Johnny smiled. The cook smiled, spat on the ground, then concluded his story. “When we got through breakfast we were ten miles from camp. Prairie fire travels. So did we.” Johnny laughed; then he thought and laughed again. After a time he rose and went on his way. “That’s another fellow,” he told himself, “that I’d never suspect of being a crook, but what’s that about people who ‘smile and smile and are a villain still’? A fellow has to watch out.” He was just thinking of this when a shrill voice piped: “Hello, Johnny! Want to see my house?” It was Tom Stick, the midget clown. He was offering Johnny a rare privilege; inviting him to view the inside of his house on wheels. Pant had told Johnny that such a boon had been granted to no one. Yet, because it was so rare, and because of Pant’s warning, “They’ll stab you in the back,” he was tempted for a second to decline. Courage and curiosity overcame his fears, and smiling he said: “Sure! Lead the way.” The clown’s house was little more than a box on wheels, but once Johnny had crowded himself through the narrow door and seated himself, much humped up, on a miniature chair, he was surprised at the completeness of its furnishings. He could easily imagine himself in a hunter’s lodge in the depths of the forest. An open fireplace, with a real wood fire burning, a roughly hewn table, benches beside the fireplace, a cluster of fox skins hanging in the corner, a bear skin on the floor, rifles hanging on one wall; all these, with the unmistakable odor of fresh pine wood, went far toward taking him back to the forests. “You see,” squeaked Tom Stick, rubbing his hands in delight at Johnny’s astonishment, “I was born and brought up in the Maine woods. I loved the wild out-of-doors, and when the circus people offered me big money to join them, I told them no. But my mother needed the money, so, at last, I told them if they’d build me this house, and never disturb me in it, I’d come. You see they did. I’ve never had any of the other circus people in here. Didn’t think they’d understand. They’ve always lived in a tent. They’d laugh at a fellow who wanted a home with four board walls, a ceiling, and a smell of the pine woods in it. But I knew you wouldn’t. You’ve had a home, and you know the woods. Tell that by the color in your cheeks, and the way you swing your arms when you walk.” For a moment the dwarf was silent, then suddenly he shot a question at his visitor. “Johnny, what do you live for?” “Why, why, I don’t know,” Johnny stammered. “Just live because it’s fun to live, I suppose.” The midget wrinkled his small brow in thought. “Not so bad,” he murmured. “Not so bad. But Johnny; did you ever wonder what a little fellow like me lives for?” “No, I didn’t,” Johnny admitted. “Well, there’s a lot of things we can’t do that big folks can; but there’s one thing, Johnny, one thing,” Tom’s tone died to a whisper; “a short man can have a tall bank account. He can, can’t he, Johnny?” The little fellow twisted his face into a knowing smile. “I guess he can,” grinned Johnny, “and it’s a fine thing that he can.” Johnny had stepped over and was examining an ancient squirrel rifle, which Tom explained had belonged to his grandfather, when he noticed the way the walls of the house were fastened. The walls were made of fresh pine slabs. They were wired tight to something behind them. “Iron bars,” was his mental comment. “When they made this they just built it inside a wild animal cage. I wonder what would happen if a fellow were to get locked in here?” He was speculating on this, when he heard a voice outside calling. “Johnny, Johnny Thompson!” It was Gwen. He answered the call and, turning to his little host, said: “Guess I better go. Some work, I suppose. Great little house, you’ve got. Much obliged for letting me see it.” He backed out of the door and hurried away to join Gwen, but even as he did so, he thought of the midget clown’s reference to a tall bank account, and of his house built inside a cage. What if this little fellow was a miser? What if his greed for gold had led him into counterfeiting? What if he were Black McCree? What safer place could be found for hiding a counterfeiter’s den than a house built inside a cage on wheels? All these speculations were cut short by the appearance of the smiling face of his lady boxing partner, Gwen. “It’s the clown stunt,” she exclaimed excitedly. “The big chief fell for it right away. He hurried a messenger off to Chicago for the balloons. They’re already here, and they’ve tried them out with a dummy and they worked beautifully. They want you to try it right away.” “This dummy,” smiled Johnny, “he didn’t fall and break his neck, did he?” “No, of course not, Silly!” “Well, here’s hoping I don’t, but it’s a powerful long distance from the top of the center tent pole down to the sawdust.” |
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