"Never heard of him," and Bill shook his head.

"He was a conjurer," explained Joe. "My father was, too. He was Professor Morretti, and my mother——"

"Was Madame Hortense. She was Janet Willoughby before her marriage," broke in Bill Watson, speaking calmly.

"What!" cried Joe. "Did you know her—them?"

"I knew both of them," said Bill. "I didn't connect your name with them at first, Strong not being uncommon. But when you mentioned your father, the professor, why, it came to me in a flash. So you're Madame Hortense's son, eh?"

"Did you know my mother well?" asked Joe.

"Know her?" cried the veteran clown. "I should say I did! Why, she and I were great friends, and so were your father and I, but I did not see so much of him, as he was in a different line. But your mother, Joe! Ah, the profession lost a fine performer when she died. I never thought I'd meet her son, and in a circus at that.

"But I'm glad you're with us, and I want to say that if you have Helen, here, on your side, you've got one of the finest little girls in all the world."

"I found that out as soon as I joined," said Joe.

"Trust you young chaps for not losing any chances like that," chuckled the clown. "Well, I'm glad you two are friends. They tell me you're quite an addition to the Lascalla troupe."

"I'm glad I've been able to do so well," Joe said.

"And how have you been, Helen?" the old clown wanted to know.

"First rate. And, oh, Bill. We have such a mystery for you—Joe and I!"

"A mystery, Helen?"

"Yes; I'm going to be an heiress. Wait until I show you the letter," which she did, to the no small astonishment of Bill Watson.

"Well, well," he said over and over again, when Helen and Joe told of the answer they had sent the New York lawyers. "Suppose you do get some money, Helen?"

"It's too good to suppose. I can't imagine any one leaving me money."

"I wish I knew a fairy godmother who would leave me some," murmured Joe. "But that wouldn't happen in a blue moon."

Bill Watson turned, and looked rather curiously at the young circus performer.

"Well, now, do you know, Joe Strong," he said, "I have an idea."

"An idea!" cried Helen gaily. "How nice, Bill. Tell us about it!"

"Now just a moment, young lady. Don't get too excited with an old man just off a sick bed. But Joe's speaking that way—I call you Joe, as I knew your folks so well—Joe's speaking that way gave me an idea. I wouldn't be so terribly surprised, my boy, if you did have money left you some day."

"How?" asked Joe in surprise.

"Why, your mother, whom, as I said, I knew very well, came of a very rich and aristocratic family in England. She was disowned by them when she married your father—as if public performers weren't as good as aristocrats, any day! But never mind about that. Your mother certainly was rich when she was a girl, Joe, and it may be she is entitled to money from the English estates now, or, rather, you would be, since she is dead. That's my idea."



CHAPTER X

IN THE TANK

"Are you really serious in that?" asked Joe of the old clown, after a moment's consideration.

"Of course I am, Joe. Why? Would it be strange to have some one leave you money?"

"It certainly would! But it would be a nice sort of strangeness," replied the young performer. "I never dreamed that such a thing might happen."

"Oh, I don't say it will," Bill Watson reminded him. "But the fact remains that your mother came from what is sometimes called 'the landed gentry' of England, and the estates there, or property, descend to eldest sons differently than property does in this country. It may be worth looking into, Joe."

"But I don't know much about my mother," Joe said. "I hardly ever meet any one who knew her. My foster-parents would never speak of her—they were ashamed of her calling."

"More shame to them!" exclaimed the clown. "There never was a finer woman than your mother, Joe Strong. And as for riding—well, I wish we had a few of her kind in the show now. I don't mean to say anything against your riding, my dear," he said to Helen. "But Janet Strong did a different sort, for she was a powerful woman, and could handle a horse better than most men."

"I guess I must get my liking for horses from her," Joe remarked.

"Very likely," agreed Bill Watson. "Some day I'll have a long talk with you about your mother, Joe, and I'll give you all the information I can. There may be some of her old acquaintances you can write to, to find out if she was entitled to any property."

"Wouldn't it be fine if we both came into fortunes!" gaily cried Helen, with sparkling eyes. "Wouldn't it be splendid, Joe?"

"Too good to be true, I'm afraid. But you have a better chance than I, Helen."

"Perhaps. Would you leave the circus, Joe, if you got rich?"

"Oh, I don't know. I guess I'd stay in it while you did—to sort of look after you," and he smiled quizzically.

"Trying to get my job, are you?" chuckled Bill. "Well, we are young only once. But I must say, Helen, that this young man gave you as good advice as I could, and I hope it turns out all right."

Joe liked Bill Watson—every one did in fact—and the young performer was pleased to learn something of his mother, and glad to learn that he would be told more.

The enforced rest Bill Watson had taken on account of a slight illness, seemed to have done the old clown good, for he worked in some new "business" in his acts when he again donned the odd suit he wore. His presence, too, had a good effect on the other clowns, so that the audiences, especially the younger portion, were kept in roars of merriment at each performance.

Joe, also, did his share to provide entertainment for the circus throngs. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that Joe provided the thrills, for some of his feats were thrilling indeed. Not that the other members of the Lascalla troupe did not share in the honors, for they did. Both Sid and Tonzo were accomplished and veteran performers on the flying rings and trapeze bars, but they had been in the business so long that they had become rather hardened to it, and stuck to old tricks and effects instead of getting up new ones.

Joe was especially good at this, and while some of his feats were not really new, he gave a different turn to them that seemed to make for novelty.

"But I don't like to see you take such risks," Helen said to him on more than one occasion. "I'm afraid you'll be hurt."

"You have to take risks in this business," Joe stated. "I don't think about them when I'm away up at the top of the tent, swinging on the bar. I just think of the trick and wonder if Sid or Tonzo will catch me or me one of them when the jump is made. Besides, the life net is always below us.

"Yes, but suppose you miss the net or it breaks?"

"I don't like supposes of that sort," laughed Joe, coolly. Truly he had good nerves, under perfect control. He was adding to his muscular strength, too. Constant and steady practice was making his arms and legs powerful indeed.

For a while Joe had been on the watch for some overt act on the part of Sid or Tonzo that would spoil an act and bring censure down on himself. But following that one attempt neither of the Spaniards did anything that Joe could find fault with. They were enthusiastic over some of the feats he performed, and worked in harmony with him. If they were jealous over Joe's popularity and the applause he often received as his share alone in some trick, they did not show it.

"Oh, Joe!" exclaimed Helen one day, when they were in the small tent getting ready for the afternoon performance. "I have a letter from the New York lawyers."

"What do they say?" Joe asked eagerly. "Did they send the money?"

"No. But they thanked me for the copies of the proofs I sent, and they said they believed they were on the right track. They will write again soon. So it wasn't a joke, anyhow."

"It doesn't look so," the youth agreed. "Is everything all right—Rosebud safe, and all that?"

"Yes. He's feeling himself again." The trick horse had been ailing the day before, and Helen was a little worried about her pet.

Joe and Helen wandered into the main tent, which was now set up. Joe wanted to get in a little practice on the trapeze, while Helen went in to watch, as she often did. The men were setting up the big glass tank in which the "human fish" performed, and when Joe came down from his trapeze, rather warm and tired, the water looked very inviting.

"I've a good notion to go in for a swim," he said to Helen.

"Why don't you?" she dared him. "It would do you good. It's such a hot day. I almost wish I could myself."

"I believe I will," Joe said. "I've got a bathing suit in my trunk."

The big tent was almost deserted at this hour, for the parade was in progress. Joe and Helen did not take part in this. Joe came back attired for a swim, and going up the steps by which Benny mounted to the platform on the edge of the tank before he plunged in, Joe poised there.

"Here I go," he called to Helen. "Got a watch?"

"Yes, Joe."

"Time me then. I'm going to see how long I can stay under water."

In he went head first, making a clean dive, for Joe was an adept in the water. He swam about in the limpid depths, Helen watching him admiringly through the glass sides of the tank. Then Joe settled down on the bottom as Benny was in the habit of doing. Helen nervously watched the seconds tick off on her wrist watch.

When two minutes had passed, and Joe was still below the water, the girl became nervous.

"Come on out, Joe!" she called. Joe could not hear her, of course. He waved his hand to her. He could not stay under much longer, he felt sure, but he did not want to give up. It was not until three seconds of the third minute had passed that he found it impossible to hold his breath longer, and up he shot, filling his lungs with air as he reached the surface.

At that moment Benny Turton came into the tent, and saw some one in his tank.

"What happened?" he cried, running forward. "Did some one fall in?"

"It's all right," Helen informed the "human fish."



CHAPTER XI

HELEN'S DISCOVERY

Joe Strong climbed out of the tank. He grinned cheerfully at Benny.

"It was so hot I took a bath in your tub," he explained. "It sure was fine! Hope you don't mind?"

"Not a bit," returned Benny, cheerfully. "Come in any time you like. It isn't exactly a summer resort beach, but it's the best we have."

"And Joe stayed under water over three minutes," Helen said.

"Did I, really?" Joe cried.

"You certainly did."

"I was just giving myself a try-out," Joe explained to Benny.

"That's pretty good," declared the "human fish," as he tested the temperature of the water. "I couldn't do that at first."

"Oh, you see I've lived near the water all my life," Joe explained, "and it comes sort of natural to me. Don't be afraid that I'm going after your act though," he added, with a laugh.

"I almost wish you would," and Benny spoke wearily.

"What's the matter?" asked Helen, with ready sympathy.

"Oh, I don't know. I don't feel just right, somehow or other. It's mostly in my head—back here," and Benny pointed to the region just behind his ears. "I've got a lot of pain there, and going under water and staying so long seems to make it worse."

"Why don't you see a doctor?" asked Joe.

"Well, you know what that would mean. I might have to lay off, and I don't want that. I need the money."

Benny had a widowed mother to support, and it was well known that he sent her most of his wages, keeping only enough to live on.

"Well, I wish I could help you," said Joe, "but I can't do all the stunts you can under water, even if I could hold down both jobs."

"The stunts are easy enough, once you learn how to hold and control your breath," Benny said. "That's the hardest part of it, and you seem to have gotten that down fine. How was the water, cold?"

"No, just about right for me," Joe declared. "I don't like it too warm."

Benny again tested the temperature by putting his hand in the tank.

"I think I'll have 'em put a little hot water in just before I do my act," he said. "I have an idea that the cold water gets in my ears and makes the pain in my head."

"Perhaps it does," Joe agreed.

Preparations for the afternoon performance were now actively under way. The big parade was out, going through the streets of the town, and soon those taking part in the pageant would return to the "lot." Then, at two, the main show would start.

Joe had a new feat for that day's performance. He and the two Spaniards had worked it out together. It was quite an elaborate act, and involved some risk, though at practice it had gone well.

Joe was to take his place on the small, high elevated platform at one side of the tent, and Tonzo would occupy a similar place on the other side. Joe was to swing off, holding to the flying rings, which, for this trick, had been attached to unusually long ropes.

Opposite him Tonzo was to swing from a regulation trapeze, which also was provided with a long rope. After the two had acquired sufficient momentum, they were to let go at a certain signal and pass each other in the air, Joe under Tonzo. Then Joe would catch the trapeze bar, and Tonzo the rings, exchanging places.

Once they had a good grip, Sid was to swing from a third trapeze, and, letting go, grasp Tonzo's hands, that performer, meanwhile, having slipped his legs through the rings, hanging head downward.

When Sid had thus caught bold, he was to signal to Joe, who was to make a second flying leap, and grasp Sid's down-hanging legs.

As said before, the feat went well in practice and the ring-master was depending on it for a "thriller." But whether it would go all right before a crowded tent was another matter. Joe was a little nervous over it—that is as nervous as he ever allowed himself to get, for he had evolved the feat, and Sid and Tonzo had not been over-enthusiastic about it.

However, it must be attempted in public sooner or later, and this was the day set for it. Before the show began Joe, Sid and Tonzo went over every rope, bar and ring. They wanted no falls, even though the life net was below them.

"Is everything all right?" Joe asked his partners.

"Yes," they told him.

The usual announcement was made of the Lascalla Brothers' act, and on this occasion Jim Tracy, who was making the presentation, added something about a "death-defying double exchange and triple suspension act never before attempted in any circus ring or arena throughout the world."

That was Joe's trick.

The three performers went through some of their usual exploits, ordinary enough to them, but rather thrilling for all that. Then came the preparations for the new feat.

Joe and Tonzo took their places on the small platforms, high up on the tent poles. The eyes of all in their vicinity were watching them eagerly. Sid was in his place, ready to swing off when the two had crossed each other in the air and had made the exchange.

"Are you ready?" called Jim Tracy in his loud voice.

"Ready," answered Joe's voice, from high up in the tent.

"Ready," responded Tonzo, after a moment's hesitation, during which he pretended to fix one slipper. This was done for dramatic effect, and to heighten the suspense.

Helen, who had just finished her tricks with Rosebud, paused at the edge of a ring to watch the new act.

"Then go!" shouted the ring-master.

Joe and Tonzo swung off together, and then swayed to and fro like giant pendulums, Joe on the rings and Tonzo on the trapeze.

"Ready?" cried Joe to his swinging partner.

"Yes," answered Tonzo.

"Come on!" Joe said.

It was time to make the exchange. This was one of the critical parts of the trick.

Joe let go the rings and hurled himself forward his eyes on the swinging trapeze bar, his hands out stretched to grasp it. He passed the form of his partner in mid-air, and the next instant he was swinging from the trapeze.

He could not turn to look, but he felt sure, from the burst of applause which came, that Tonzo had successfully done his part.

Again Tonzo and Joe were swinging in long arcs, so manipulating their bodies as to give added momentum to the long ropes.

"Ready down there?" asked Joe of Sid.

"Ready," he answered.

"Then go!"

Sid swung off, as Tonzo hung head downward with outstretched hands. Sid easily caught them, for this was a trick they often did together. Now must come Joe's second leap, and it was not so easy as the first, nor did he have as good a chance of catching Sid's legs as he would have had at Tonzo's hands.

However, it was "all in the day's work," and he did not hesitate at taking chances.

He reached the height of his swing and started downward in a long sweep.

"Here I come!" he called.

He let go the trapeze bar, and made a dive for Sid's dangling legs. For the fraction of a second Joe thought he was going to miss. But he did not. He caught Sid by the ankles and the three hung there, swinging in mid-air, Tonzo, of course, supporting the dragging weight of the bodies of Joe and Sid. But Tonzo was a giant in his strength.

There was a burst of music, a rattle and boom of drums, as the feat came to a successful and startling finish. Then, as Joe dropped lightly into the life net, turning over in a succession of somersaults, the applause broke out in a roar.

Sid and Tonzo dropped down beside Joe, and the three stood with arms over one another's shoulders, bowing and smiling at the furor they had caused.

"A dandy stunt!" cried Jim Tracy, highly pleased, as he went over to another ring to make an announcement. "Couldn't be better!"

This ended the work of Joe and his partners for the afternoon, the new feat being a climax. They ran out of the tent amid continuous applause, and Joe saw Helen waiting for him.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she whispered. "So glad!"

It was about a week after this, the show meanwhile having moved on from town to town, that one of the trapeze performers who did a "lone act," that is all by himself, was taken ill.

"I'll just shift you to his place, Joe," said Jim. "You can easily do what he did, and maybe improve on it."

"But what about my Lascalla act?"

"Oh, I'm not going to take you out of that. You'll do the most sensational things with them, but they can have some one else for the ordinary stunts. I want you to have some individual work."

Joe was glad enough for this chance, for it meant more money for him, and also brought him more prominently before the public. But the Lascalla Brothers were not so well pleased. They did not say anything, but Joe was sure they were more jealous of him than before. He was going above them on the circus ladder of success and popularity. But it was none of Joe's planning. His success was merited.

The mail had been distributed one day, and Helen had a letter from the New York lawyers, stating that a member of the firm was coming on to inspect the old Bible and the other original proofs of her identity.

"I must tell Joe," she said, and on inquiry learned that he was in the main tent, practising. As she walked past the dressing room which Joe and the Lascalla Brothers used, she saw a strange sight.

Sid and Tonzo were doing something to a trapeze. They had pushed up the outer silk covering of the rope—covering put on for ornamental purposes—and Tonzo was pouring something from a bottle on the hempen strands.

"I wonder what he is doing that for," mused Helen. "Can it be that——"

She got no further in her musing, for she heard Sid speaking, and she listened to what he said.



CHAPTER XII

JUST IN TIME

"This ought to do the business," said Sid.

"Yes," agreed Tonzo, "and not so quickly that it will be noticed, either. It will work slowly, but surely."

"That's what we want," commented the other. "We're in no hurry. Any time inside of a week will do. Now we'll put this away to ripen."

"That's queer," thought Helen, and she passed on, for by the movement in the canvas dressing room she thought the men were about to come out, and she did not want them to see her at what they might consider spying on them. "I never heard of ripening a rope before," the girl said. "But it may be they have to for a trapeze. I'll ask Joe about it. He might fix some of his ropes that way."

Helen went on, anxious to find the young performer, and show him her letter from the lawyer.

"I'll tell Bill Watson, too," Helen decided.

As she expected, both Joe and the old clown were much interested in her news.

"It does really begin to look as though you would come into some money, doesn't it?" Joe said.

"I'm beginning to believe it myself," Helen answered, "though I don't really count on it as yet."

"Yes, it's best to go a little slowly," advised Bill. "Not to count your chickens before they're hatched is a good motto. But this looks like business. I'd like to interview that lawyer when he comes."

"I'll turn him over to you," Helen said with a laugh. "To you and Joe, and you can arrange about getting my money for me. I'll make you two my official advisers."

"I accept with pleasure," Joe answered, with a bow.

"And that reminds me," went on Bill. "I'm going to give you the addresses of some people who might know about your mother's folks in England, Joe. As I told you, they disowned her when she married your father, though there wasn't a finer man going. But he was an American, and that was one thing they had against him, and another was that he was a public performer.

"I think, too, that they rather blamed him for your mother's going into the circus business, Joe. Your mother was always a good horsewoman, so I have understood. She took part in many a fox hunt in England, and in cross-country runs, always coming out in front. And when your father met her he, as I understand it, suggested that, just for fun, she try circus work. She took it up seriously, and Madame Hortense became one of the foremost circus riders of her time. But from then on her name was forgotten by her relatives, and her picture was, so to speak, turned to the wall."

"I wish I could get one of those pictures," said Joe thoughtfully. "I have only a very small one that was in my father's watch. I'd like a large one, for I can't remember, very well, how she looked."

"She was a handsome woman," said the clown. "It may be that you can get a picture of her from England—that is, if they saved one. I'll give you the address of some folks you can write to. It might be well to get a firm of lawyers here to take the matter up for you."

"I believe it would be best," agreed Joe.

"Why not let my lawyers—notice that, my," laughed Helen. "Why not let my lawyers act for you, Joe? That is, after we see what sort they are. They seem honest."

"Another good idea!" commented the young performer. "I'll do it. You say one of them is coming to see you?"

"So he says in this letter."

"Does he know where to find you?"

"Yes; I have told him the places where the circus will show for the next two weeks. He can find the place easily enough, and inquire for me. Oh, I'm so anxious to know how rich I'm going to be!"

"I don't blame you," chuckled Bill. "Now, Joe, if I had a pencil and paper I'd give you those addresses I spoke of."

Joe supplied what was needed, and obtained the names of some men and women—circus performers who had been associated with his mother. Joe wrote to them, asking the names of his mother's relatives in England, and their addresses.

Helen's attention was so taken up with the affairs of her inheritance that she forgot about the queer actions of Sid and Tonzo until after the performance that night.

Then, as she and Joe were going to the train to take the sleeping cars for the next stop, Helen asked:

"Joe, did you ever hear of ripening trapeze ropes?"

"Ripening trapeze ropes?" he repeated. "No. What do you mean?"

Helen then told what she had seen and heard in the dressing tent.

Joe shook his head.

"It may be some secret process they have of treating ropes to make them tougher, so they'll last longer," Joe said. "They may call it ripening, but I never heard of it. I'll ask them."

"Don't tell them I saw them," Helen cautioned him.

"Of course not," Joe answered. "Perhaps it may be a professional secret with them, and they won't tell me anyhow. But I'll ask."

But when Joe, as casually as he could, inquired of Sid and Tonzo what they knew of ripening trapeze ropes, the two Spaniards shook their heads, though, unseen by Joe, a quick look passed between them.

"I sometimes oil my ropes, to make them pliable," Tonzo admitted. "Olive oil I use. But it does not make them ripe."

"I guess that must have been it," thought Joe. "Helen was probably mistaken. It might have been a word that sounded like ripening."

So he said no more about it then, though when he reported to Helen the result of his questioning, she shook her head.

"I'm sure I heard aright," she declared. "And they were pouring something from a bottle on the trapeze rope from which they had pushed the silk covering."

"It might have been olive oil," Joe said.

"It might," Helen admitted, '"but I don't believe it was. They don't handle any of your ropes, do they?"

"I always look after my own. Why?"

"Oh, I just wanted to know," and that was all the answer Helen would give.

As Joe went to his dressing room for that afternoon's performance he passed Senor Bogardi, the lion tamer. Something in the man's manner attracted Joe's attention, and he asked him:

"Aren't you feeling well to-day, Senor?"

"Oh, yes, as well as usual. It is my Princess who is not well."

"Princess, the big lioness?"

"Yes. I do not know what to make of her actions. She is never rough with me, but a little while ago, when I went in her cage, she growled and struck at me. I had to hit her—which I seldom do—and that did not improve her temper. I do not know what to make of her. I have to put her through her paces in the cage this afternoon, and I do not want any accident to happen.

"It is not that I am afraid for myself," went on the tamer, and Joe knew he spoke the truth, for he was absolutely fearless. "But if she comes for me and I have to—to do—something, it may start a panic. No, I do not like it," and he shook his head dubiously.

"Oh, well, maybe it will come out all right," Joe assured him. "But you'd better tell Jim, and have some extra men around. She can't get out of her cage, can she?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. Well, we shall see."

It was almost time for the performance to begin. The crowd was already streaming into the animal tent and slowly filtering into the "main top," where the performance took place. Before that, however, there was a sort of "show" in the animal arena, Senor Bogardi's appearance in the cage with the lioness being one of the features.

Joe had gone to his dressing tent and was coming out again, when he heard unusual roars from the animal tent. The lions often let their thunderous voices boom out, sometimes startling the crowd, but, somehow or other, this sounded differently to Joe.

"I wonder if that's Princess cutting up," he reflected. "Guess I'll go in and have a look. I hope nothing happens to the senor."

Though lion tamers, as well as other performers with wild beasts, seem to take matters easily, slipping into the cage with the ferocious creatures as a matter of course, they take their lives in their hands whenever they do it. No one can say when a lion or a tiger may suddenly turn fierce and spring upon its trainer. And there is not much chance of escape. The claws of a lion or a tiger go deep, even in one swift blow of its powerful paws.

Joe started for the animal tent, and then remembered that he needed in his act that day a certain short trapeze, the ends of the ropes being provided with hooks that caught over the bar of another trapeze.

He hurried back to get it, and then, as the unusual roars kept up in the arena, he hastened there. As he had surmised, it was Princess who was roaring, her fellow captives joining in. Senor Bogardi had slipped into the cage, and was waiting until the creature had calmed down a little.

Cages in which trainers perform with wild beasts are built in two parts. In one end is a sort of double door, forming a compartment into which the trainer can slip for safety. The senor had opened the outer door of the cage and slipped in, it being fastened after him.

But he was still separated from Princess by another iron-barred door that worked on spring hinges. And Princess did not seem to want this door opened. She sprang against it with savage roars and thrust her paws through, trying to reach her trainer. He sought to drive her back into a far corner, so that he would have room to enter. Once in, he felt he could subdue her. But Princess would not get back sufficiently, though Senor Bogardi ordered her, and even flicked her through the bars with the heavy whip he carried.

"I guess you'd better cut out the act to-day," advised Jim Tracy, as he saw how matters were going. The women and children were beginning to get nervous, some of them hastening into the other tent. Men, too, were looking about as if for a quick means of escape in case anything happened.

"No, no. I must make her obey me," insisted the performer. "If I give in to her now I will lose power over her. Get back, Princess! Get back! Down!" he ordered.

But the lioness only snarled and struck at the bars with her paws. Then she threw herself against the spring door, roaring. The cage rocked and shook, and several women screamed.

"Cut out the act!" ordered the ring-master. "It isn't safe with this crowd."

"That's right," chimed in a man. "We know it isn't your fault, professor."

"Thank you!" Senor Bogardi bowed. "For the comfort of the audience I will omit my act to-day. But I will subdue Princess later."

There was a breath of relief from the crowd as the trainer prepared to leave the cage. Men who had fastened the door after him raised the iron bar that held it so he could emerge.

The lion-tamer slipped from the cage through the outside door, which was about to be shut when Princess, with all her force, threw herself against the inner spring door.

Whether it was insecurely fastened or whether she broke the fastenings, was not disclosed at the moment, but the door gave way and the enraged beast sprang into the smaller compartment and toward the outer door.

"Quick!" cried the trainer. "Up with that bar! Fasten the door, or she'll be out among us!"

The circus men raised the bar, but the cage was swaying so from the leapings of the lioness that they could not slip the iron in place. It almost dropped from their hands.

Joe Strong saw the danger. He stood near the cage, the crowd having rushed back, men and women yelling with fright. Joe saw the outer door swing open. In another instant the lioness would be out.

At that moment the men dropped the iron bar.

"Quick! Something to fasten the door—to hold it!" cried the lion-tamer.

Joe acted in a flash and not an instant too soon. He forced the strong hickory bar of his small trapeze into the places meant to receive the iron bar, and as the lioness, with a roar of rage, flung herself against the door, it did not give way, but held. Joe had prevented her escape.



CHAPTER XIII

A BAD BLOW

"Quick now! With the iron bar!" cried Senor Bogardi. "That trapeze stick won't hold long!"

But it held long enough. As the lioness, flung back into a corner of her cage by her impact against the steel door, gathered herself for another spring, the men slipped into place the iron bar, Joe pulling out his trapeze.

"It's all right now—no more danger!" called Jim Tracy. "Take it easy, folks, she can't get out now!"

This was true enough. The beast, after a fruitless effort to force a way out of the cage, retreated to a corner and lay down, snarling and growling.

"I don't know what's gotten into Princess," said the trainer as he looked at her. "She never acted this way before."

"It's a good thing she showed her temper before you got in the cage with her, and not afterward," remarked Joe, as he was about to pass on to the performance tent.

"That's right," agreed Senor Bogardi. "And you did the right thing in the nick of time, my boy. Only for your trapeze bar she'd have been out among the crowd," and he looked at the men, women and children, who were now calming down.

The small panic was soon over, and in order to quiet the lioness a big canvas was thrown over her cage, so she would not be annoyed by onlookers.

"I guess she needs a rest," her trainer said. "I'll let her alone for a day or so, and she may get over this."

Joe went on into the tent where he was to do his trapeze acts. It was nearly time for him to appear, and the other two Lascalla Brothers were waiting for him. They would do an act together, and Joe one of his single feats, however, before the three appeared in a triple act.

The young performer was straightening out the ropes attached to his trapeze, when he noticed that the bar of the small one, which he had thrust into the door of the lioness' cage, was cracked.

"Hello!" exclaimed Joe. "This won't do. I can't risk doing tricks up at the top of the tent on a cracked bar. It might hold, and again it might not."

He tried the cracked bar in his hands. It gave a little, but seemed fairly strong.

"I wonder if I could get another," mused Joe. "Guess I'd better try."

He walked over to where the Lascalla Brothers stood near their apparatus.

"What's the matter?" asked Sid, seeing Joe trailing the broken trapeze after him.

"This bar is cracked. It's my short trapeze that I fasten to the big one. I used it just now to hold the door so the lioness wouldn't get out, and the wood is cracked. I was wondering if you had a spare one like this."

"We have!" exclaimed Tonzo quickly. "Get the little short one—the one with the silk coverings on the ropes," he said to Sid. "Joe can use that."

"I'll be back with it in a second," Sid stated, as he hurried off to the dressing tent, for it was nearly time for the performance to begin. Sid returned presently with another trapeze.

At this moment Helen came in with her horse, Rosebud, for she was about to do her act.

"What's the matter, Joe?" asked Helen, for she knew that at this point in the performance he ought to be on the other side of the tent doing his act.

"Oh, I cracked a trapeze bar," Joe replied, as he stepped up beside the girl and patted Rosebud. "Sid is going to get me another. Here he comes now with it."

At the sight of the trapeze the circus man was bringing up, Helen was conscious of a strange feeling. She saw the silk-covered ropes, and the recollection of that scene in the tent came vividly to her.

"I guess this will do you, Joe," remarked Sid, holding out the trapeze. "It's the only one we have like yours."

"Thanks," responded the young performer. "That will do nicely. I've got to hustle now and——"

Joe turned away, but became aware that Helen was leaning down from the saddle and whispering to him.

"Joe! Joe!" she exclaimed, making sure the Lascalla Brothers could not hear her, for they were On the other side of Rosebud. "Joe, don't use the trapeze!"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm sure that's the one I saw those two men 'ripening,' as they call it. They had pulled back the silk cover, and were pouring something on the rope. Look at it before you use it. Be careful!"

Then she flicked Rosebud with the whip and rode into the ring to do her act amid a blare of trumpets. Joe stood there, holding the trapeze. The two Spaniards were starting their act now, and were high up in the air.

"Whew!" whistled Joe. "I wonder what's up. Can it be that this rope is doctored? I won't let them see me looking at it."

He hurried over to his own particular place in the tent.

"Lively, Joe!" called Jim Tracy. "You're late as it is!"

"I'll be right on the job in a moment," the young performer answered. "I had to get another trapeze—the lioness cracked mine."

"Oh, all right—but hustle."

Under pretense of fastening the short trapeze to the larger one Joe pushed back the loose silk covering the ropes. To his surprise, on one rope was a dark stain. Joe rubbed his fingers over the strands. They were rotten, and crumbled at the touch. Joe smelled of the dark stain.

"Acid!" exclaimed Joe. "Some one spilled acid on this rope. Talk about putting on something to ripen it! This is something to rot it!"

He tested the rope in his hands. It did not part, but some of the strands gave, and he did not doubt but that if he trusted his weight to it it would break and give him a fall.

"Now I wonder if they did that on purpose to queer me," mused Joe. "If they did they waited for a most opportune time to give me the doctored trapeze. They couldn't have known I was going to break mine. I wonder if they did it on purpose.

"Of course I wouldn't have been killed, and probably not even much hurt, if the rope did break," thought Joe. "I'd only fall into the life net, but it sure would spoil my act and make me look like an amateur. Maybe that's their game! If it was——"

Joe paused, and looked over in the direction of the two Spaniards. They were going through their act, but Joe thought he had a glimpse of Tonzo looking over toward him.

"They want to see what happens to me," thought Joe. "Well, they won't see anything, for I sha'n't use this trapeze. I'll change my act."

"Hey, what's the matter over there, Joe?" called Jim Tracy to him. "You ought to be up on the bar."

"I know it, Mr. Tracy. But I've got to make a change at the last minute. I can't use this extra trapeze."

"All right; do anything you like, but do it quick!"

Joe signaled to his helper, who began hoisting him to the top of the tent by means of rope and pulley. Once on his own regular trapeze, which he had tested but a short while before, Joe went through his act.

He had to improvise some acts to take the place of those he did on the short trapeze. But he did these extra exploits so well and so easily that no one in the audience suspected that it was anything but the regular procedure.

Then Joe, amid applause, descended and went over to work with the two Spaniards. He carried the doctored trapeze with him.

"I didn't use this," he said, looking closely at Tonzo. "It seems to have been left out in the rain and one of the ropes has rotted."

"Rotted?" asked Sid, his voice trembling.

"Something like that, yes," answered Joe.

"Ah, that is too bad!" exclaimed Tonzo, and neither by a false note nor by a change in his face did he betray anything. "I am glad you discovered the defect in time."

"So am I," said Joe significantly. "Come on, now.

"Probably they fixed the rope with acid, and kept it ready against the chance that some day I might use it," reflected Joe. "The worst that could happen would be to spoil my tricks—I couldn't get much hurt falling into the net, and they knew that. But it was a mean act, all right, and I sha'n't forget it. I guess they want to discourage me so they can get their former partner back. But I'm going to stick!"

"Did you find out anything, Joe?" asked Helen, when she had a chance to speak to him alone.

"I sure did, thanks to you, little girl. I might have had a ridiculous fall if I'd used their trapeze. You were right in what you suspected."

"Oh, Joe! I'm so glad I saw it in time to warn you."

"So am I, Helen. It was a mean piece of business, and cunning. I never suspected them of it."

"Oh, but you will be careful after this, won't you, Joe?"

"Indeed I will! I want to live long enough to see you get your fortune. By the way, when is that lawyer coming?"

"He is to meet me day after to-morrow."

"I'll be on hand," Joe promised.

It rained the next day, and working in a circus during a rain is not exactly fun. Still the show goes on, "rain or shine," as it says on the posters, and the performers do not get the worst of it. It is the wagon and canvas men who suffer in a storm.

"And this is a bad one," Joe remarked, when he went in the tent that afternoon for his act. "It's getting worse. I hope they have the tent up good and strong."

"Why?" asked Helen.

"Because the wind's increasing. Look at that!" he exclaimed as a gust careened the big, heavy canvas shelter. "If some of the tent pegs pull out there'll be trouble."

Helen looked anxious as she set off to put Rosebud through his tricks, and Joe was not a little apprehensive as he was hoisted to the top of the tent. He saw the big pole to which his trapeze was fastened, swaying as the wind shook the "main top."



CHAPTER XIV

HELEN'S INHERITANCE

Joe Strong had scarcely begun his act when he became aware that indeed the storm was no usual blow and bluster, accompanied by rain. He could feel his trapeze swaying as the whole tent shook, and while this would not have deterred him from going on with his performance, he felt that an accident was likely to occur that would start a panic.

"It surely does feel as if the old 'main top' was going to fall," thought Joe as he swung head downward by his knees, preparatory to doing another act. He could see that many in the audience were getting uneasy, and some were leaving their seats, though the red-capped ushers were going about calling:

"Sit still! Keep your seats! There is no danger. The tent is perfectly safe."

Jim Tracy had ordered this done. As a matter of fact the tent was not perfectly safe, but under the circumstances it was best to tell the people this to quiet them and to avoid having them make a rush to get out, as in that case many would be hurt—especially the women and the children.

"It's a good thing it isn't night," reflected Joe. "Whew! That was a bad one!" he exclaimed as a terrific blast seemed fairly to lift one side of the tent. Men started from their seats and women and children screamed.

"Just keep quiet and it will be all right," urged the ring-master, but the crowd was fast getting beyond control.

Joe saw Jim Tracy sending out a gang of men to drive the tent pegs deeper into the ground. The rain softened the soil, and thus made the pegs so loose that they were likely to pull out. At the same time the rain, wetting the ropes, caused them to shrink, and thus exert a stronger pull on the pegs and poles. So the ropes had to be eased off, while the pegs were pounded farther into the ground with big mauls.

"Lively now, men!" called the ring-master.

The big tent swayed, sometimes the top of it being lifted high up by the wind which blew under it. Again the sides would bulge in, making gaps by which the rain entered.

But the band kept on playing. Jim saw to that, for nothing is more conducive to subduing a panic than to let the crowd hear music. The performers, too, kept on with their acts, and some of the audience began to feel reassured.

But the wind still kept up, blowing stronger if anything, and Joe and others realized that it needed but a little accident to start a rush that might end fatally for some.

Joe was just about to go into the second series of his gymnastic work when he heard a tent pole beneath him snap with a breaking sound. At first he thought it was the big one to which his apparatus was made fast, but a glance showed him this one was standing safe. It was one of the smaller side poles.

That part of the tent sagged down, the wind aiding in the break, and there were cries of fear from scores of women, while men shouted all sorts of directions.

But the circus people had gone through dangers like this before, and they knew what to do. Under the direction of Jim Tracy and his helpers, extra poles were quickly put in place to take the weight of the wet canvas off the broken one. This at once raised the tent up from those on whom it had partly fallen.

And then something else happened.

One of five horses which were being put through a series of tricks by a man trainer, suddenly bolted out of the ring. Joe, high up in the tent, saw him running, and noted that the animal was headed for the ring where Helen Morton was performing with Rosebud.

"He's going to run into her!" thought Joe. "I've got to do something!"

He must think and act quickly. While attendant's were running after the bolting horse Joe, looking down, saw that the animal would pass close to his life net. In an instant Joe had decided what to do.

He poised on the small platform, from which he made his swings, and dropped straight into the big net. Just as he had calculated, he bounced up again, and as he did so he sprang out to one side.

Joe's quick eyes and nerves had enabled him to judge the distance correctly. He leaped from the net just as the horse was opposite him, and landed on his back in a riding position.

It was the work of but a second to reach forward, grasp the little bridle which the animal wore, and pull him to one side.

And it was not a second too soon, either, for the horse was on the edge of the ring in which Helen was performing with Rosebud. If the maddened animal had gone in, there would have been a collision in which the girl performer would, undoubtedly, have been injured.

"Good work, Joe!" cried the ring-master. "But there's plenty more to be done. I guess we'll have to get all the men performers to help hold down the tent. I'm afraid she's going."

"It does look so," Joe admitted as he leaped from the horse and gave him in charge of one of the attendants. "What can we do?"

"Help drive in extra pins and attach more ropes. I'm going to dismiss the audience. We'll stay over here to-morrow, and give an extra performance to make up for it."

"I'll get a crowd together and we'll help the canvasmen," offered Joe.

"And I'll help," said Benny Turton, who had finished his tank act.

"Come on!" cried Joe, as he led the way.

Meanwhile Jim Tracy had requested the audience to file out as quickly and in as orderly a manner as possible. The crowd was not large, as the weather had been threatening in the morning and many had stayed at home. But it was no easy matter to dismiss even a small throng in such a storm.

However, it was accomplished, the band meanwhile playing its best, and under hard conditions, as part of the tent over them split and let the rain in on them.

But the music served a good turn, and while the people were hurrying out the canvasmen, aided by the performers, Joe among them, drove in extra pegs, tightening those that had become loose, put on additional ropes, so that, by hard work, the big tent was prevented from blowing down.

Once outside, the audience, though most of them were soon drenched, took it good-naturedly. They were given emergency tickets as they passed out, good for another admission.

And then the storm, which seemed to have reached its height, settled down into a heavy rain. The wind died out somewhat, and there was no danger from the collapse of the tent.

"Good work, boys!" said the ring-master, as the performers, all of them wet through, and in their performing suits too, came in. "Good work! If it hadn't been for you I don't know what we would have done. I'll not forget it."

There had been some trouble in the animal tent during the storm; the beasts, especially the elephants, evincing a desire to break loose. But their trainers quieted them, and soon the circus was almost normal again.

Of course the afternoon had been lost, but there was hope of a good attendance at night if the storm were not too bad. And by remaining over another afternoon the deficiency could be made up. Word was telegraphed ahead to the next town announcing a postponement in the date. The broken pole was replaced with another, and then the performers enjoyed an unexpected vacation.

"I want to thank you, Joe, for what you did," said Helen, coming up to him in the dining tent, where an early supper was served. "I saw what you did—stopping that runaway horse."

"Oh, it wasn't anything," Joe said, modestly enough.

"Wasn't it?" asked Helen, with a smile. "Well, I consider myself and Rosebud something worth saving."

"Oh, I didn't mean it that way," Joe said quickly. "But the runaway might not have gone near you."

"Yes, I'm afraid he would. But you saved me."

"Well, if you feel that way about it," laughed Joe, for he did not want Helen to take the matter too seriously, "why then we're even. You saved me from a bad fall on the trapeze."

The storm subsided somewhat by night, and there was a good attendance. And the receipts the next day were very large in the afternoon, for the story of what the circus men had done was widely spread, and served as a good advertisement. Joe was applauded louder than ever when he did his acts.

The two wily Lascalla Brothers never referred to the incident of the rotted trapeze rope, and Joe did not know whether to believe them guilty or not. At most, he thought, they only wanted to give him a tumble that might make him look ridiculous, and so discourage him from continuing the work. In that case their deposed partner might get a chance. But Joe did not give up, and he kept a sharp lookout. He redoubled his vigilance regarding his ropes, bars and rings, inspecting all of them just before each performance.

On arriving at the next town Helen received a note in her mail asking her to call at the principal hotel in the place. It was signed by one of the members of the law firm.

"You come with me, Joe," she begged. "I don't want to go alone."

"All right," agreed the young performer. "We'll go and get your inheritance."

"If there's any to get," laughed Helen. "Oh, Joe, I'm so nervous!"

"Nervous!" he answered. "I wish I could be afflicted with nervousness like that—money-nervousness, I'd call it!"

They found Mr. Pike, the lawyer, to be an agreeable gentleman. He had requested Helen to bring with her the proofs of her identity, the old Bible and other books, which she did. These the lawyer examined carefully, and asked the girl many questions, comparing her answers with some information in his notebook. Finally he said:

"Well, there is no doubt but you are the Miss Helen Morton we have been looking for so long, and I am happy to inform you that you are entitled to an inheritance from your grandfather's estate."

"Really?" cried Helen, eagerly.

"Really," answered the lawyer, with a smile. "It isn't a very large fortune, but it will yield you a neat little income every year. In fact there is quite an accumulation due you, and I shall be happy to send it on as soon as I get back to New York. I congratulate you!"



CHAPTER XV

A WARNING

Helen could hardly believe the good news. Though she had hoped, since hearing from the law firm, that she might be entitled to some money, Helen had always been careful not to hope too much.

"For I don't want to be badly disappointed," she told Joe.

"Well," he remarked, "I wish my chances were as good as yours."

For the answers he received from the letters he wrote concerning his mother's relatives in England were disappointing. As far as these letters went there was no estate in which Joe might share, though Bill Watson insisted that the late Mrs. Strong came of a wealthy family.

"Anyhow, you've got yours, Helen," said Joe.

"Well, I haven't exactly got it yet," and she looked at Mr. Pike.

"Oh, the money is perfectly safe," the lawyer assured Helen. "I have part of it on deposit in my bank, and the rest is safe in California."

"Just how did it happen to come to me?" Helen inquired.

"Well," answered the lawyer slowly, "it's a long and complicated story. Your grandfather on your father's side was quite a landholder in San Francisco. Some of his property was not worth a great deal, and other plots were very valuable. In time he sold off most of it, but one large tract was considered so worthless that he could not find a buyer for it. When he died he still owned it, and it descended to your father.

"He thought so little of it that he never tried to put it on the market. But during the last few years the city has grown out in the direction of this land, and recently the property was sold.

"An effort was made to find the owner, your father, but as he was dead, and no one knew what had become of his heirs, the land was sold, and the money deposited with the state, to be turned over to the right owner when found. We have a branch office in San Francisco, and we were engaged to try to find any Morton heirs. Finally we found you, and now I am glad to say that my work in this connection is so happily ended.

"As I told you, I have some cash ready for you. The rest of your inheritance is in the form of bonds and mortgages, which will bring you in an income of approximately sixty dollars a month."

"That's fifteen a week!" exclaimed Helen, who was used to calculating that way, as are most circus and theatrical persons.

"Of course you could sell these bonds and mortgages, and get the cash for them," said the lawyer, "but I would not advise you to. You will have about three thousand dollars in cash, as it is, and this ought to be enough for your immediate needs, especially as I understand you have a good position."

"Yes, I am earning a good salary," Helen admitted, "but I have not been able to save much. I am very glad of my little fortune."

"And I am glad for you, my dear young lady. Now, as I said, as soon as I get back to New York I will send one of my clerks on to you with the cash. I may be old fashioned, but I don't like to trust too much to the mails. Besides, I want to get your signature to certain documents, and you will have to make certain affidavits to my clerk. So I will send him on. Let me have a note of where you will be during the next week."

Helen gave the dates when the circus would play certain towns, and Mr. Pike left.

"Well, it's true, little girl, isn't it?" cried Joe as they walked back to the circus together.

"Yes, and I'm very glad. I've always wanted money, but I never thought I'd have it—at least as much as I'm going to get. I wish you would inherit a fortune, Joe."

"Oh, don't worry about me. I don't expect it, and what one never has had can't be missed very much. Maybe I'll get mine—some day."

"I hope so, Joe. And now I want you to promise me something."'

"What?"

"That if ever you need money you'll come to me."

Joe hesitated a moment before answering. Then he said:

"All right, Helen, I will."

To Joe the novelty of life in a circus was beginning to wear off. To be sure there was something new and different coming up each day, but he had now gotten his act down to a system, and to him and the other performers one day was much like another, except for the weather, perhaps.

They did their acts before crowds every day—different crowds, to be sure; but, after all, men, women and children are much alike the world over. They want to be amused and thrilled, and the circus crowds in one place are no different from those in another.

The Sampson Brothers' Show was not one of the largest, though it was considered first class. Occasionally it played one of the large cities, but, in the main, it made a circuit of places of smaller population.

Joe kept on with his trapeze work, now and then adding new feats, either by himself or with the Lascalla Brothers. On their part they seemed glad to adopt Joe's suggestions. Occasionally they made some themselves, but they were more in the way of spectacular effects—such as waving flags while suspended in the air, or fluttering gaily colored ribbons or strands of artificial flowers. But Joe liked to work out new and difficult feats of strength, skill and daring, and he was generally successful.

He had not relaxed his policy of vigilance, and he never went up on a bar or on the rings without first testing his apparatus. For he never forgot the strangely rotted rope. That it had been eaten by some acid, he was sure.

He did not again get sight of that particular small trapeze, nor did he ask Sid or Tonzo what had become of it. He did not want to know.

"It's best to let sleeping dogs lie," reasoned Joe. "But I'll be on the lookout."

Matters had been going along well, and Joe had been given an increase of salary.

"Well, if I can't get a fortune from some of my mother's rich and aristocratic ancestors," Joe thought with a smile, "I can make it myself by my trapeze work. And, after all, I guess, that's the best way to get rich. Though I'm not sure I'll ever get rich in the circus business."

But the calm of Joe's life—that is if, one can call it calm to act in a circus—was rudely shaken one day when in his mail he found a badly scrawled note. There was no signature to it, but Joe easily guessed from whom it came. The note read:

"You want to look out for yourself. You may think you're smart, but I know some smarter than you. This is a big world, but accidents may happen. You want to be careful."

"Some of Sim Dobley's work," mused Joe, as he tore up the note and cast it aside. "He's trying to get my nerve. Well, I won't let that worry me. He won't dare do anything. Queer, though, that he should be following the circus still. He sure does want his place back. I'm sorry for him, but I can't help it."

Joe did not regard the warning seriously, and he said nothing about it to Helen or any one else.

"It would only worry Helen," he reflected.

The show was over for the night. Even while the performers in the big tent had been going through with their acts, men had taken away the animal cages and loaded them on the flat railroad cars. Then the animal tent was taken down and packed into wagons with the poles and pegs.

As each performer finished, he or she went to the dressing tent and packed his trunk for transportation. From the dressing tent the actors went to the sleeping car, and straight to bed.

Joe's acts went very well that night. He was applauded again and again and he was quite pleased as he ran out of the tent to make ready for the night journey. He saw Benny Turton changing into his ordinary clothes from his wet fish-suit, which had to be packed in a rubber bag for transportation after the night performance, there being no time to dry it.

"Well, how goes it, Ben?" asked Joe.

"Oh, not very well," was the spiritless answer. "I've got lots of pain."

"Too bad," said Joe in a comforting tone. "Maybe a good night's sleep will fix you up."

"I hope so," said the "human fish."

The circus train was rumbling along the rails. It was the middle of the night, and they were almost due at the town where next they would show.

Joe, as well as the others in his sleeping car, was suddenly awakened by a crash. The train swayed from side to side and rolled along unevenly with many a lurch and bump.

"We're off the track!" cried Joe, as he rolled from his berth. And the memory of the scrawled warning came vividly to him.



CHAPTER XVI

THE STRIKE

The circus train bumped along for a few hundred feet, the engine meanwhile madly whistling, the wheels rattling over the wooden sleepers, and inside the various cars, where the performers had been suddenly awakened from their sleep, pandemonium reigned.

"What's the matter?" called Benny Turton from his berth near Joe's.

"Off the track—that's all," was the answer, given in a reassuring voice. For Joe had, somehow or other, grasped the fact there was no great danger unless they ran into something, and this, as yet, had not happened.

The train was off the track (or at least some of the coaches were) but it was quickly slowing down, and Joe, by a quick glance at his watch, made a mental calculation of their whereabouts.

For several miles in the vicinity where the accident had occurred was a long, and comparatively straight stretch of track, with no bridges and no gullies on either side. A train running off the track, even if going at fairly fast speed, would hardly topple over.

Before starting out that night Joe had inquired of one of the men about the journey, and, learning that they were approaching his former home, the town of Bedford, he had looked up the route and the time of arrival at their next stopping place. He had a quick mind, and he remembered about where they should be at the time the accident occurred. In that way he was able to determine that, unless they struck something, they were in comparatively little danger.

"Off the track—that's all!" repeated Benny Turton as he looked down from his berth at Joe. "Isn't that enough? Wow! What's going on now?"

The train had stopped with a jolt. The air brakes, which the engineer had flung on at the first intimation of danger, had taken hold of the wheels with a sudden grip.

"This is the last stop," said Joe, and he smiled up at Benny. He could do so now, for he felt that their coach, at least, was safe. But he was anxious as to what had happened to the others. Helen, with many of the other women performers, was in the coach ahead.

Benny crawled down from his berth, and stood looking at Joe.

"It doesn't seem to worry you much," he remarked.

"Not as long as there's nothing worse than this," Joe answered. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"Only my feelings."

"Well, you'll get over that. Let's see what's up."

By this time the aisle of the car was filled with excited men performers. They all wanted to know what had happened, their location and various other bits of information.

"The train jumped the track," said Joe, who appeared the coolest of the lot. "We don't seem to have hit anything, though at first I thought we had. We're right side up, if not exactly with care."

"Where are we?" demanded Tonzo Lascalla.

"We ought to be near Far Hills, according to the time table," Joe answered. "If I could get a look out I could tell."

He went to the end of the car and peered out. It was a bright moonlight night, and Joe was able to recognize the locality. As a boy he had tramped all around the country within twenty-five miles of Bedford, in the vicinity of which they now were, and he had no difficulty in placing himself. He found that he had guessed correctly.

By this time there was an excited crowd of trainmen and circus employees outside the coaches which had left the rails. Joe and some of the others slipped on their clothes and went out to see what had happened.

Joe's first glance was toward the coach in which he knew Helen rode. He was relieved to see that though it had also left the rails it was standing upright. In fact, none of the cars had tilted more than was to be expected from the accident.

"Well, this is a nice pickle!" exclaimed Jim Tracy, bustling up. "This means no parade, and maybe no afternoon show. How long will it take you to get us back on the rails?" he asked one of the brakemen.

"Hard to say," was the answer. "We'll have to send for the wrecking crew. Lucky it's no worse than a delay."

"Yes, I suppose so," agreed the ring-master. It was only one train of the several that made up the circus which had left the rails. The animal cars were on ahead, safe, and the sections following the derailed coaches had, by a fortunate chance, not left the rails.

"What caused us to jump?" asked Benny.

"There was a fish plate jammed in a switch," answered one of the brakemen. "We found it beside the track where we knocked it out, and that saved the other trains from doing as we did."

"A fish plate in the switch?" repeated Joe. "Did it get there by accident?"

"Ask me something easier," quoted the brakeman. "It might have, and again it might not. I understand you discharged a lot of men at your last stop, and it may be some of them tried to get even with you."

It was true that a number of canvasmen had been allowed to go because they were found useless, but none of the circus men believed that these individuals would do so desperate a deed as to try to wreck the train.

Joe thought of the threatening letter he had received—Sim Dobley was the writer, he was sure—but even Sim would hardly try anything like this. He might feel vindictive against Joe, and try to do him some harm or bring about Joe's discharge.

But to wreck a train——

"I don't believe he'd do that," reasoned Joe. "I won't mention the letter—it would hardly be fair. I don't want to get him into trouble, and I have no evidence against him."

So Joe kept quiet.

The circus trains ahead of the derailed one could keep on to their destination. After some delay those in the rear were switched to another track, and so passed around the stalled cars.

Then the wrecking crew arrived, and just as the first gray streaks of dawn showed the last of the cars was put back on the track.

"Well, we're off again," remarked Joe, as, with Benny and some of their friends, they got back in their berths.

"Not much more chance for sleep, though," the "human fish" remarked, dolefully enough.

"Oh, I think I can manage to get some," said, Joe, as he covered up, for the morning was a bit chilly.

"I hope my glass tank didn't get cracked in the mix-up," remarked Benny. "It wouldn't take much to make that leak, and I've had troubles enough of late without that."

"Oh, I guess it's perfectly safe," remarked Joe, sleepily.

The excitement caused by the derailing was soon forgotten. Circus men are used to strenuous happenings. They live in the midst of excitement, and a little, more or less, does not bother them. Most of them slept even through the work of getting the train back on the rails.

Of course the circus was late in getting in—that is the derailed train with its quota of performers was. Early in the morning, when they should have been on the siding near the grounds, the train was still puffing onward.

Joe arose, got a cup of coffee in the buffet car, and went on ahead to inquire about Helen and some of his friends in the other coach.

"Oh, I didn't mind it much," Helen said, when Joe asked her about it. "I felt a few bumps, and I thought we had just struck a poor spot in the roadbed."

"She hasn't any more nerves than you have, Joe Strong," declared Mrs. Talfo, "the fat lady."

"Did you mind it much?" Joe asked.

"Did I? Say, young man, it's a good thing I had a lower berth. I rolled out, and if I had fallen on anybody—well, there might have been a worse wreck! Fortunately no one was under me when I tumbled," and Mrs. Talfo chuckled.

"And you weren't hurt?" asked Joe.

The fat lady laughed. Her sides shook "like a bowlful of jelly," as the nursery rhyme used to state.

"It takes more than a fall to hurt me," said Mrs. Talfo. "I'm too well padded. But we're going to get in very late," she went on with a look at her watch. "The performers should be at breakfast at this time, to be ready for the street parade."

"We may have to omit the parade," said Joe.

"I wouldn't care," declared the fat lady with a sigh. "It does jolt me something terrible to ride over cobble streets, and they never will let me stay out."

"You're quite an attraction," said Joe, with a smile.

"Oh, yes, it's all right to talk about it," sighed Mrs. Talfo, "but I guess there aren't many of you who would want to tip the scales at five hundred and eighty pounds—advertised weight, of course," she added, with a smile. "It's no joke—especially in hot weather."

The performers made merry over the accident now, and speculated as to what might happen to the show. Their train carried a goodly number of the "artists," as they were called on the bills, and without them a successful and complete show could not be given.

"We may even have to omit the afternoon session," Joe stated.

"Who said so?" Helen demanded.

"Mr. Tracy."

"Well, it's better to lose that than to have the whole show wrecked," said the snake charmer. "I remember being in a circus wreck once, and I never want to see another."

"Did any of the animals get loose?" asked Joe.

"I should say they did! We lost a lion and a tiger, and for weeks afterward we had to keep men out hunting for the creatures, which the excited farmers said were taking calves and lambs. No indeed! I don't want any more circus wrecks. This one was near enough."

This brought up a fund of recollected circus stories, and from then on, until the train stopped on the siding near the grounds, the performers took turns in telling what they had known of wrecks and other accidents to the shows with which they had been connected. Joe listened eagerly. It was all new to him.

"I only hope my glass tank isn't cracked," said Benny again. He seemed quite worried about this.

"Well, if it's broken they'll have to get you another," Joe told him. The tank was carried in one of the cars of the derailed train.

"They might, and they might not," said Benny. "My act hasn't been going any too well of late, and maybe they'd be glad of a chance to drop it from the list. I only hope they don't, though, for I need the money."

Benny spoke wistfully. He seemed greatly changed from the boy Joe had known at first. Benny had grown thinner, and he often put his hand to his head, as though suffering constant pain. Joe and Helen felt sorry for him.

Still there was little they could do, except to cheer him up. Benny had to do his own act—which was a unique one that he had evolved after years of practice. It was not alone the staying under water that made it popular, it was the tricks that the lad did.

"Well, we're here at last," said Joe, as he and his friends alighted from their sleeping car. "Better late than never, I suppose."

Men were busy on the circus grounds, putting up tents, arranging the horses and other animals, putting the wagons in their proper places and doing the hundred and one things that need to be done.

"I wonder what's going on over there," said Helen, as she pointed to a group of men about the place where the canvas for the main tent had been spread out in readiness for erection. "It looks like trouble."

"It does," agreed Joe, as he saw Jim Tracy excitedly talking to the canvasmen. "I'm going to see what it is."

He approached the ring-master, who was also one of the owners of the show.

"Anything wrong?" Joe asked.

"Wrong? I should say so! As if I didn't already have troubles enough here, the tent-men go on a strike for more money. I never saw such luck!"



CHAPTER XVII

IN BEDFORD

Joe Strong looked from the group of sullen, lowering canvasmen to Jim Tracy. On the ring-master's face were signs of anxiety.

"Is it really a strike?" Joe asked.

"That's what they call it," replied the circus owner. "I didn't know they belonged to a union, and I don't believe they do. They just want to make trouble, and they take advantage of me at a time when I'm tied up because we're late with the show."

"What is it they want?" asked Helen.

"More money," Jim Tracy replied. "I wouldn't mind giving it to them if I could afford it, or if they weren't getting the same wages that are paid other canvasmen in other circuses. But they are. As a matter of fact, they get more, and they have better grub. I can't understand such tactics!"

"It looks as if some of them were coming over to speak to you," remarked Joe, as he observed one of the strikers detach himself from the group, and approach the ring-master.

"Let him come," snapped Jim. "He'll get no satisfaction from me."

The man seemed a bit embarrassed as he approached, chewing a straw nervously. He ignored several of the circus performers, Joe and Helen among them, who were grouped about Jim Tracy, and, addressing the owner, asked:

"Well, have you made up your mind? Is it to be more money for us or no show for you?"

"It's going to be 'no' to your unreasonable demand, and I want to tell you, here and now, that the show's going on. You can go back to your cowardly crowd, that tries to hit a man when he's down, and tell 'em Jim Tracy said that!" cried the ring-master with vigor. "You'll get no more money from me. I'm paying you wages enough as it is!"

"All right, no money—no show!" said the fellow, impudently. "We gave you half an hour to make up your mind, and if that's your answer you can take the consequences."

He started to walk away, and Tracy called after him:

"If you try to interfere or make trouble, and if you try to stop the show, I'll have you all arrested if I have to send for special detectives."

"Oh, we won't make any trouble except what you make for yourself," declared the striker. "We just won't do anything—that'll be the trouble. There's your 'main top,' and there she'll stay. We won't pull a rope or drive a peg!"

He pointed to the pile of canvas with its mass of ropes, poles and pegs that lay on the ground ready for erection. It should have been up by this time, and the parade ought to have been under way. But with the railroad accident, the delay and the strike, the big tent in which Joe, Helen and the others were to perform was not yet raised.

"The cowards!" exclaimed Jim in a low voice; looking at Joe. "I wonder if I'd better give in to 'em?"

"Can you get others to take their places?" the young trapeze acrobat wanted to know.

"Not here. I could if I were nearer New York. But as it is——" He threw up his hands with a gesture of despair. "I guess I'll have to give in," he said. "I can't afford not to give a show. Here, you——"

He called to the departing striker.

"Wait a minute!" Joe quickly exclaimed to the ring-master. "I think we can find a way out of this."

"How?"

"Have you any men who know something about putting up the tent?"

"I know all there is to be known about it myself. But it takes more than one man to raise the 'main top.' There are a lot of the animal men and wagon drivers who used to be canvas hands. They haven't struck. But there aren't enough of them. It's no use."

"Yes, it is!" cried Joe. "We men performers will turn canvasmen for the time being. Give us some hands who know how to lay out the canvas, how to lace up the different sections, which ropes to pull on; men to show us how to drive stakes and to haul up the poles—do that and we'll have the tent up in time for the show!"

"Can you do it?" cried the ring-master, in an eager tone.

"Sure we can!" exclaimed Joe. "There are enough of us, and we're willing to turn in. You get the men who know how, and we'll be their assistants."

"It might work," said Tracy, reflectively. "I'm much obliged to you, Joe. It's worth trying. But do you think the performers will do it?"

"I'll talk to 'em," said the trapeze artist. "They'll be glad to raise the tent, rather than see a performance given up. Go get your men and I'll talk to the others."

"All right—I will."

"Did you call me?" asked the striker who had been appointed to wait on the ring-master and learn his decision.

"I did not!" cried Jim Tracy. "I'm through with you. We don't need your services."

"Ha!" laughed the man. "Let's see you get up the 'main top' without us."

"Stick around long enough and you'll see it," said Joe Strong.

Joe found a group of the men performers gathered in the dressing tent, discussing the situation. And while the ring-master hastened to gather up such forces as he could muster, Joe made his little talk.

"You're just the very one we want," he said to Tom Jefferson, "the strong man." "You ought to be able to put up the tent alone. Come on now, gentlemen, we must all work together," and rapidly he explained the situation to some who did not understand it.

"Will you help raise the tent?" Joe asked.

"We will!" cried the performers in a chorus.

Soon there was a busy scene in the circus "lots." Not that there is not always a busy time when the show is being made ready, but this was somewhat different. Led by Joe, the performers placed themselves under the direction of some veteran canvasmen who had been working in other departments of the circus.

Jim Tracy, who had in his day been a helper, took the part of the striking foreman of the canvas-workers, and the "main top" soon began to look as it always did. The big center poles were put in place and guyed up. The sections of canvas were laced together in the regular manner, so that they could be taken apart quickly simply by pulling on a rope. Knots tied in erecting a circus tent must be made so they are easily loosed, even in wet weather.

For a while the striking canvasmen stood and laughed at the efforts of those who were taking their places. But they soon ceased to jeer. For the tent was slowly but correctly going up.

"We'll give the show after all!" cried Joe, as he labored at lifting heavy sections of canvas, pulling on ropes or driving stakes.

"I believe we will," agreed the ring-master. "I don't know how to thank you, Joe."

"Oh, pshaw! I didn't do anything! I'm only helping the same as the rest."

"Yes, but it was your idea, and you persuaded the men to pitch in."

And, in a sense, this was true. For Joe was a general favorite with the circus performers, though he had been with them only a comparatively short time. But he had his mother's reputation back of him, as well as his father's, and Bill Watson had spoken many a good word for the young fellow. Circus folk are always loyal to their own kind, and there were many, as Joe learned later, who knew his mother by reputation, and some personally. So they were all glad to help when Joe put the case to them vividly, as he did.

Joe's popularity stood him in good stead, even though there were some who were jealous of the reputation he was making. But jealousies were cast aside on this occasion.

Even the Lascalla Brothers did their share, working side by side with Joe at putting up the tent, as they worked with him on the trapeze. The strong man was a great help, doing twice the work that the others did.

The performers wore their ordinary clothes, laying aside coats and vests as they labored. And the men who knew how circus tents must go up, saw to it that the amateurs did their work well, so there would be no danger of collapse.

While the big tent was being put up the other preparations for the show were proceeded with. Mr. Boyd and Mr. Sampson, who were part owners with Jim Tracy, arranged for a small parade, since it had been advertised. On the back of one of the elephants rode the fat lady, with a banner which explained that because of a strike of the canvasmen the usual street exhibition could not be given. The assurance was made, though, that the show itself would be the same as advertised.

"That will prevent the public from being too sympathetic with the strikers," said Jim Tracy. "The public, as a rule, doesn't care much for a strike that interferes with its pleasure."

At last the big tent was up, and all was in readiness for the afternoon performance, though it would be a little late.

"It won't be much fun taking down the tent after the show to-night," said Joe.

"Perhaps you won't have to," stated the ring-master. "I may be able to hire men to take the strikers' places before then."

"But if you can't, we'll help out," declared the young trapeze performer, though he knew it would be anything but pleasant for himself and the others, after high-tension work before a big audience, to handle heavy canvas and ropes in the dark.

The public seemed to take good-naturedly to the circus, not being over-critical of the lack of the usual big street parade. And men, women and children came in throngs to the afternoon performance.

The circus people fairly outdid themselves to give a good show, and Joe worked up a little novelty in one of his "lone" acts.

He gave an exhibition of rope-climbing, Jim Tracy introducing the act with a few remarks about the value of every one's knowing how to ascend or descend a rope when, thereby, one's life might some time be saved.

"Professor Strong will now entertain you," announced the ring-master, "and tell you something about rope-work."

Joe had hardly bargained for this, but his work as a magician, when he often had the stage to himself and had to address a crowded theatre, stood him in good stead. He was very self-confident, and he illustrated the way a beginner should learn to climb a rope.

"Don't try to go up hand over hand at first," Joe said. "And don't climb away up to the top unless you're sure you know how to come down. You may get so exhausted that you'll slip, and burn your hands severely, for the friction of rapidly sliding down a rope will cause bad burns."

Joe showed how to begin by holding the rope between the soles of the feet, letting them take the weight instead of the hands and arms. He went up and down this way, and then went up by lifting himself by his hands alone, coming down the same way—which is much harder than it looks.

Joe also illustrated the "stirrup hold," which may be used in ascending or descending a rope, to get a rest. The rope is held between the thighs, the hands grasping it lightly, and while a turn of the rope passes under the sole of the left foot and over the toes of the same, the right foot is placed on top, pressing down the rope which passes over the left foot. In this way the rope is held from slipping, and the entire weight of the body can rest on the side of the left leg, which is in a sort of rope loop. Thus the arms are relieved.

Joe showed other holds, and also how to sit on a rope that dangled from the top of the tent. Half way up he held the rope between his thighs, and made a loop, which he threw over his left shoulder. Then, by pressing his chin down on the rope, it was held between chin and shoulder so that it could not slip. Grasping the rope with both hands above his head, Joe was thus suspended in a sitting position, almost as easily as in a chair. The crowd applauded this.

Then Joe went on with his regular trapeze work—doing some back flyaway jumps that thrilled the audience. This trick is done by grasping the trapeze bar firmly at arm's length, swinging backward and downward until the required momentum is reached. When Joe was ready he suddenly let go and turned a backward somersault to the life net.

The trick looked simple, but Joe had practised it many times before getting it perfectly. And he often had bad falls. One tendency he found was to turn over too far before letting go the bar. This was likely to cause his feet to strike the swinging bar, resulting in an ugly tumble.

The evening performance was even better attended than that of the afternoon. Jim Tracy succeeded in hiring a few men to assist with the tents, but he had not enough, and it began to look as though the performers would have to do double work again.

But there occurred one of those incidents with which circus life is replete. The place they were showing in was a large factory town, and at night crowds of men and boys—not the gentlest in the community—attended.

At something or other, a crowd of roughs felt themselves aggrieved, and under the guidance of a "gang-leader" began to make trouble. They threatened to cut the tent ropes in retaliation.

"That won't do," decided Jim Tracy. "I've got to tackle that gang, and I don't like to, for it means a fight. Still I can't have the tent collapse."

He hurriedly gathered a crowd of his own men, armed them with stakes, and charged the gang of roughs that was creating a small riot, to the terror of women and children.

The rowdies finding themselves getting the worst of it, called for help from among the factory workers, who liked nothing better than to "beat-up" a circus crowd. Jim Tracy and his men were being severely handled when a new force took a hand in the melee.

"Come on, boys. We can't stand for this!" shouted Jake Bantry, the leader of the striking canvasmen. "They sha'n't bust up the show, even if the boss won't give us more money."

The canvasmen were used to trouble of this kind. Seizing tent pegs, and with cries of "Hey Rube!"—the time-honored signal for a battle of this kind—the striking canvasmen rushed into the fracas.

In a short time the roughs had been dispersed, and there was no more danger of the tents being cut and made to collapse.

"I'm much obliged to you boys," said Jim Tracy to the strikers, when the affray was over. "You helped us out finely."

"It was fun for us," answered Jake Bantry. "And say, Mr. Tracy, we've been talking it over among ourselves, and seeing as how you've always treated us white, we've decided, if you'll take us back, that we'll come—and at the same wages."

"Of course I'll take you back!" exclaimed the owner heartily. "And glad to have you."

"Good! Come on, boys! Strike's broken!" cried Bantry.

So Joe and his fellow-artists did not have to turn to tent work that night.

In looking over the advance booking list one day, Joe saw Bedford marked down.

"Hello!" he cried. "I wonder if that's my town." It was, as he learned by consulting the press agent.

"Are you glad?" asked Helen.

"Well, rather, I guess!" Joe said.

And one morning Joe awakened in his berth, and looked out to see the familiar scenes of the town where he had lived so long.

"Bedford!" exclaimed Joe. "Well, I'm coming back in a very different way from the one I left it," and he chuckled as he thought of the "side-door Pullman," and the pursuing constables.



CHAPTER XVIII

HELEN'S MONEY

After breakfast Joe, who did not take part in the parade, set out to see the sights of his "home town," or, rather, he hoped to meet some of his former friends, for there were not many sights to see.

"The place hasn't changed much," Joe reflected as he passed along the familiar streets. "It seems only like yesterday that I went away. Well, Timothy Donnelly has painted his house at last, I see, and they have a new front on the drug store. Otherwise things are about the same. I wonder if I'd better go to call on the deacon. I guess I will—I don't have any hard feelings toward him. Yes, I'll go to see him and——"

Joe's thoughts were interrupted by a voice that exclaimed:

"Say! Look! There goes Joe Strong who used to live here!"

The young circus performer turned and saw Willie Norman, a small boy who lived on the street where Joe formerly dwelt.

"Hello, Willie," called Joe in greeting.

"Hello," was the answer. "Say, is it true you're with the circus? Harry Martin said you were."

"That's right—I am," Joe admitted. He had kept up a fitful correspondence with Harry and some of the other chums, and in one of his letters Joe had spoken of his change of work.

"In a circus!" exclaimed Willie admiringly. "Do they let you feed the elephant?" he asked with awe.

"No, I haven't gotten quite that far," laughed Joe. "I'm only a trapeze performer."

"Say, I'd like to see you act," Willie went on, "but I ain't got a quarter."

"Here's a free ticket," Joe said, giving his little admirer one. In anticipation of meeting some of his friends in Bedford that day, Joe had gotten a number of free admission tickets from the press agent, who was always well supplied with them. Willie's eyes glistened as he took the slip of pasteboard.

"Geewillikens!" he exclaimed. "Say, you're all right, Joe! I'm going to the circus! I wish I could run away and join one."

"Don't you dare try it!" Joe warned him. "You're too small."

He went on, meeting many former acquaintances, who turned to stare at the boy whose story had created such a stir in the town. Joe was looked upon by some as a hero, and by others as a "lost sheep." It is needless to say that Deacon Blackford was one who held the latter opinion.

Joe called on his former foster-father, but did not find him at the house. Mrs. Blackford was in, however, and was greatly surprised to see Joe. She welcomed and kissed him, and there were traces of tears in her eyes.

"Oh, Joe!" she exclaimed. "I am so sorry you left us, but perhaps it was all for the best, for you must live your own life, I suppose. I never really believed you took the money," she added, referring to an incident which was related in the book previous to this.

"I'm glad to hear that," Joe said. "I want to thank you for all your care of me. I didn't like to run away, but it seemed the only thing to do. And, as you say, I think it has turned out for the best. The circus life appeals to me, and I'm getting on in the business."

Mrs. Blackford was really glad to see Joe. She had a real liking for him, in spite of the fact that she had a poor opinion of circus folk and magicians, and she did not believe all the deacon believed of Joe. She could not forget the days when, while he was a little lad, she had often sung him to sleep. But these days were over now.

Joe found the deacon at the feed store. The lad's former foster-father was not very cordial in his greeting, and, in fact, seemed rather embarrassed than otherwise. Perhaps he regretted his accusation against our hero.

"Would you like to see the circus?" Joe inquired, as he was leaving the office. "I have some free tickets and——"

"What! Me go to a circus?" cried the deacon, with upraised hands. "Never! Never! Circuses and theatres are the invention of the Evil One. I am surprised at your asking me!"

Joe did it for a joke, more than for anything else, as he knew the deacon would not take a ticket. Bidding him good-bye, Joe went out to find his former chums.

They, as may well be supposed, were very glad to see him. And that they envied Joe's position goes without saying.

"Well, well! You certainly put one over on us!" exclaimed Charlie Ford admiringly. "How did you do it, Joe?"

"Oh, it just happened, I guess. More luck than anything else."

"When you got Professor Rosello out of the fire you did a good thing," commented Tom Simpson.

"Yes, I guess I did—in more ways than one," admitted Joe.

"And are you really doing trapeze acts?" inquired Henry Blake.