"He—he thought you killed him?" whispered Christine.

"He said I killed him. I was dazed—I was crazy. It was a long time before I realized what was happening to me. The—the servants and the neighbors who came in wanted to lynch me—but Judge Gainsborough, who rode over in his night-clothes from his plantation, prevailed upon them to wait—to give me a hearing. My uncle Frank would have let them hang me. I began at last to realize how badly it looked for me. They laughed at my story of the man who ran away. My uncle Frank deliberately denied that Isaac Perry had been there. I was stupefied. It came over me suddenly that—that Uncle Frank had done the shooting. He had killed his own father!"

"The monster!"

"How wonderfully everything worked out against me. The gun, with one barrel empty, for I had fired it that very day in the woods; my presence at the window; the servants who saw me looking in; my uncle Frank's tale of how he came out on the gallery above and saw me hiding in the dead lilac bushes, and afterwards creep up to the window to look in upon the thing I had done. He told of my attempt to run and of his straggle to hold me. One of the servants had seen me go down when granddaddy called to me, and again he had seen me go down quietly to the library after the paper. I did go quietly, it is true, so as not to disturb the old gentleman.

"They all rushed upstairs to search my room. Lying on my table was the long envelope. Judge Gainsborough opened it, so he says. They came downstairs and I shall never forget the look of horror in the Judge's eyes as he stood there staring at me. 'David,' he said, 'this is a terrible, terrible thing you have done.' I couldn't speak. 'How did you know that your grandfather had made this new will?' Christine, the—the paper was a new will, giving everything to my uncle Frank, excepting a small bequest in money and a house and lot in Richmond, which, however, was to go to Uncle Frank in case of my death. The will looked genuine—everybody said so—even Judge Gainsborough. It had been drawn three weeks before and had been witnessed by George Whitman, who died ten days after signing, and Mortimer Simms, who, strangely enough, died three days later."

"It was a forgery—a false will?" she cried, trembling violently in her excitement.

"I know it was—I know it. My grandfather had told me of the deed. This was the envelope and the paper. There was no such deed to be found. That makes me half believe that he did sign the will, thinking it was something else. My story about the deed was not believed. As for Isaac Perry, my uncle said that he left for New York soon after my grandfather's visit to Richmond, doubtless when the will was drawn and signed. He could not have been near Jenison Hall at the time of the shooting. Uncle Frank produced a letter from Isaac, received that very day from New York, in which he said that he was going to Europe as the body-servant of a New York gentleman who had helped him to secure an education.

"They locked me in the cellar and put a guard over me until the sheriff could come up in the morning. Christine, there wasn't a single chance for me to prove my innocence. I knew that Uncle Frank and Isaac Perry had arranged the whole devilish plot—how nicely they arranged it, too! It worked out even better than they expected, for I unwittingly damned myself. I never can tell you of my feelings when the whole thing became clear to me. I must leave that to your imagination. I was as innocent as a babe, and yet, in the eyes of every one, as guilty as ever any murderer has been in this world. My only chance to escape certain hanging lay in escape. It was after three o'clock in the morning when I began to think of flight. I made up my mind that I could never hope for acquittal. I thought only of getting away from them and then devoting my whole life to finding the proof of my innocence. Isaac Perry can prove it—or my uncle. But, my uncle will not do it—and Isaac is not to be found. I discovered that when I reached Richmond two nights afterwards. He had left nearly three weeks before, never to return, it was said.

"Well, to make it short, I hit my darky guard over the head with a chunk of stove-wood. I hated to do it, but it was the only chance. You can't kill a nigger by hitting him on the head. Then I crawled through a small hole in the cellar wall into the potato bins beyond. From there I could easily get into the back yard, provided no one was watching. They were all on the other side of the wing, discussing the murder—and me. They said I'd surely be lynched the next night. Oh, it was awful. I crawled out of the window hole and sneaked off toward the hen-houses, below the old slave building. I don't know when they missed me. I only know that I reached the woods and ran and ran till I thought I should drop. Some other time I will tell you of all I went through during the next week. You won't believe a lot of it, I know,— it was so dreadful. There were a good many times when I was ready to give up, and a good many times when they almost had me. God helped me, though. He heard my prayers. I'll never again think there is no God, as a lot of us used to think at the University. You don't know the agony of dread and fear in which I'm living now. Something tells me that they will get me and that I'll never have the chance to find Isaac Perry, to force him to tell the truth."

"I am sure you will find him, David," she said, but her heart was very cold.

The circus tents were just ahead of them now. The band was playing and people were hurrying along the poorly lighted streets, sheltered by umbrellas, all bound for the "grounds."

David's lips were rigid; his eyes saw nothing of the scene ahead, nor were his ears conscious of the music.

"Christine, I am going to kill my uncle Frank," he said, quite calmly.

"Oh, David!"

"If I find I can't clear myself, I am going back there and shoot him down like a dog—just as he shot his poor old fa—father." His body shook with the racking sobs that choked him.

"You must not do that," she implored, terrified. "Then they would surely hang you."

"Ah, but I wouldn't mind it then," he said between his teeth.

"David, you must let mother talk with you. She can tell you what to do. Don't think of—of that, please, please don't."

He turned upon her, amazed. "Don't you think that he ought to be killed?" he demanded.

"Can't a judge order him to be hung?" she asked encouragingly.

"But they'd never be able to prove it on him. Christine, I—I wouldn't be surprised if he has also killed Isaac Perry. I've thought of that, too. Isaac is too dangerous to be left alive, don't you see. He drew the will and perhaps forged granddaddy's name, and also that of George Whitman, after Whitman's death. Maybe granddaddy really signed the will, thinking it was the transfer. I—"

"Do you think your uncle wanted you to be hanged for something you didn't do,—for a murder he committed himself?"

"Why not? I was in the way. If they lynched me at once, he could feel very secure. Besides, he knew of the other will, dated years ago, which is in the bank at Richmond. Of course, the fraudulent will takes the place of the old one."

David did not then tell her of his stealthy return to Jenison Hall two nights after his flight and before the funeral. On this occasion he not only secured the envelope containing the three thousand dollars, hidden in his mother's black leather trunk, but from a place of concealment he was forced to hear such damning talk regarding himself that he again stole away, fully convinced that his wild design to charge his uncle with the crime would be absolutely suicidal.

A sharp exclamation from the girl brought him out of his last fit of abstraction. They were quite near to the tents.

"We are late," she cried nervously. "I didn't think of the time. The band is playing the waltz—that's the second piece before the tournament. We must hurry. Oh, I do hope father has not missed us!"

There was abject terror in her voice.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, apprehending the outcome for her alone. "We must make for the rear of the dressing-tent. Hurry, Christine."

They broke into a run, intending to make a wide circuit of the main- tops. She was breathless with anxiety. He grasped her arm to help her across the rough ground.

"If he knew, he would drive you away," she cried. She was not thinking of herself.

Near the dressing-tent they were met by Mrs. Braddock, who had started out to look for them.

"Hurry," she whispered. "Go in on the other side, Jack—quickly. Come this way, Christine. Your father is coming back through the main-top. Mr. Briggs and Professor Hanson are detaining him near the band section—talking of a change in the music. Oh, I've been so nervous!"

"Good-by, David," whispered Christine, as she flew to the sidewall. An instant later she disappeared, casting a quick glance up into his face as he gallantly lifted the canvas for her to pass under.

"I'm sorry," he murmured impulsively to Mrs. Braddock as she followed. Then he raced around the tent and bolted under the wall into the men's section.

Joey Grinaldi simply glared at him.

In two minutes he was out of his clothes and beginning to slip into the stripes.

"Here's Brad," hissed a friendly "Courtier," calling in through the flap, beyond which a dozen men and women were waiting to make the grand entree, or "tournament."

Braddock came in, his cigar wallowing in the throes of a vacuous but conciliatory smile. Every one stood ready for a shocking display of profanity.

"Jacky," he said, with amiable disregard for the novice's tardiness, "would you mind letting me take fifty dollars until to-morrow? There's a guy out here that threatens to attach us if I don't settle an outrageous bill for feed and provisions. I'm just forty-eight fifty short."

No one spoke. David did not even glance at Grinaldi or the others. He knew and they knew that there was no such claim against Braddock. He hesitated for an instant only. Then it was borne in upon him that Braddock may have heard of his walk with Christine and was demanding tribute.

He picked up his coat and deliberately drew from the lining a thin, folded bit of paper. It contained all the money that was in his possession at the time. He counted off five ten-dollar bills, replaced the remaining thirty dollars inside his striped shirt, and handed the tribute to Braddock.

"You're a damn' fine boy, Jacky," said the man. "I'll not forget this."

Later on he demonstrated the sincerity of the remark.

He came back when the show was half over, and with vast good nature took David over to where Mrs. Braddock and Christine were standing with wonder and doubt in their faces.

"I guess it's all right for us four to see a little more of each other," he said, but he did not look at his wife. "Jacky, you rascal, you are a gentleman, and as such I introduce you to my family. Let's all be friends."

Mrs. Braddock's face went white. She understood the motive of the man. He meant to follow new methods in the effort to secure possession of David's money.

Christine beamed with delight. She kissed her father's stubbly cheek and called him a darling!



CHAPTER VII

THE BROTHERS CRONK

"Don't you tell 'im you've stuck that money away in a bank," was all that Joey Grinaldi said when David told him of Braddock's sudden change of front. It was a sentient bit of advice, showing that the wool was not to be pulled over Joey's eyes.

"I think I understand," said David gloomily. "But what am I to say to him?"

"Don't peep. Leave it to me. I'll tell 'im that you're talking of putting most of it into the business after you get safely over into Indiana or Illinois. That'll stave 'im off. But he's going to 'ave that money, one way or another, my lad. That's wot's on 'is mind."

The next morning, just after the parade, David went off for a walk in the town. His thoughts were of the evening before and the half-hour he had spent with Christine. He was thinking of her wonderfully sympathetic eyes, of the live touch of her hand on his arm, of the soft music in her voice, of the delicious words of faith and confidence she had whispered. He could still feel the tight clasp of her fingers on his arm; he could still hear the tremulous note in her voice.

And how gravely she had smiled at him in the ring! What a profession of deep loyalty there was in the glance she gave him when he passed her in the dressing-tent! The world seemed to have grown brighter for him all of a sudden. For the first time in weeks he whistled,—and it was a blithe air that he lilted, for, by nature, he was a blithe lad.

His reverie was abruptly disturbed. Turning a corner he came upon a group of town boys. They were making faces and hooting at a strange figure that crouched against a high board fence. David recalled this figure at once: a squat, hunchback lad who was to be seen at times behind the counter of the "snack stand." More than once had the strong, straight Virginian gazed with a certain pity upon the pale- faced cripple. He had been struck by the look of patient suffering in the boy's face.

But now that look was gone. The hunchback, who could have been no more than fifteen, was convulsed by rage. He was showing his teeth like a vicious dog. The most appalling flow of profanity came shrieking through his white lips. David was shocked. Never in all his life had he heard such unspeakable names as those which the tormented boy was screaming back at his tantalizers.

Suddenly he spat upon the biggest of his scoffers, following the act with a name so vile that the other leaped forward and struck him a heavy blow in the face.

This was too much for David. He dashed in and planted a stinging right-hander on the jaw of the enraged bully, sending him to the ground beside the hunchback, who was writhing there with blood on his lips.

For a second or two the fellow's companions, four in number, stood undecided. Then, with one accord, they rushed at David Jenison.

The Virginian was not skilled in the art of self-defense, but he was brave and cool and strong. He met the rush staunchly. To his own surprise his wild swings landed with amazing precision and the most gratifying effect. Two of his assailants reeled away under the savage impact of his blows. A stone, hurled by one of the young ruffians, struck him on the shoulder; another reached his face with a cutting blow of the fist. He felt the hot blood trickling down his cheek. But he stood squarely in front of the hunchback, his fists swinging like mad, half of his blows failing to land on the person of any one of his crowding, cursing adversaries.

Suddenly a new element entered into the one-sided conflict. A whirlwind figure dashed out of an alley hard by and came crashing into the thick of the fray.

"Dick! Dick!" shrieked the cowering cripple, the fiercest glee in his shrill voice.

"Always on hand," sang out the newcomer, slashing out right and left. "Old Nick-o'-time, my lads. So you'd jump on a cripple, would you? Here's a Christmas gift for you, you hayseed!"

Singing glibly after this fashion, the tall recruit laid about him with devastating effect. Three of the surprised town boys were sprawling on the ground; another was trying to scale the fence ahead of an expected boot-toe; the fifth was being soundly polished off by the exhilarated David. In less time than it takes to tell it, five terrified hoodlums were "streaking it" in as many directions, their chins high with a mighty resolve, their legs working like pinwheels, their eyes popping and their mouths spread in speechless endeavor. Five seconds later you couldn't have found one of them with a telescope.

The hunchback had leaped forward and was clasping a leg of the tall, angry rescuer, whining petulantly: "Why didn't you come sooner, Dick! You never look out for me. One of them struck me. See!"

"Struck you, did he? I'd—I'd have killed him if I'd knowed that, Ernie. But, say, who's your friend? Looked as if he was doing business all right when I came up. Hello! They got to you, did they? Bleeding like a pig, you are. Say, young feller, never—never put your nose where it can be hit. I hates the sight of blood, and always did."

David was wiping the blood from his cheek. The tall young man came over and inspected the break in the cuticle.

"Just peeled it off a little," he announced. "No harm done. Oh, I say, you're the new clown, ain't you? I saw you last night. Put it there, kid. You're a brick. I'll not forget what you did for Ernie."

The two shook hands. The satirical grin had left the stranger's face. He was regarding David with keen gray eyes, narrowed by the odd intentness of his gaze. David had the feeling that his innermost soul was being searched by the shrewdest eyes he had ever looked into.

"I came up just in time," explained the Virginian, still somewhat out of breath. "They were teasing him, and then one of the brutes struck him. I like fair play. I couldn't help taking a hand. They might have hurt him severely."

"He's my brother," said the other, putting his hand on Ernie's misshapen shoulder. "No, I won't forget this," he went on. "You didn't have to interfere, but you did. Plucky thing to do. They say you come from Virginia. Well, you've proved it. Thank you for doing this. My name's Dick Cronk. I'm from New York. Ernest, I haven't heard you say anything that sounds like 'much obliged.' Speak up!"

The hunchback looked sullenly at the ground, his black eyebrows almost meeting in a straight line above his nose.

"He couldn't have licked 'em if you hadn't come, Dick," he protested.

"See here, Ernie," said Dick, "that's no way to act. Mr.—er—this young gentleman defended you until I—"

"I saw him looking at my—my hump yesterday. He laughed at me," cried the boy fiercely.

David's hand fell from his bloody cheek. "Laughed at you?" he cried. "I never did such a thing. You are mistaken."

"What were you laughing at, then?" demanded the unfortunate boy, made over-sensitive by his dread of ridicule.

"I don't remember that I laughed," said David, perplexed and distressed.

"Well, you did," defiantly.

David caught the look of profound embarrassment in Dick Cronk's face. He felt a sharp pity for him, though he could not have explained why.

"I'm sorry you think that of me," he said. "And I am happy to have come to your assistance just now. Let's be friends."

Dick pushed Ernie forward, gently but firmly. The hunchback extended his hand grudgingly.

"All right," he said sulkily.

"Come on!" said Dick, suddenly alert. "The cops will be along here directly. Let's get back to the lot. I'm not particularly anxious to get pinched just now."

He winked at David in a most mysterious way, and then grinned broadly. David looked puzzled. Then a deep flush spread over his unstained cheek.

"You mean because you are with me?" he demanded.

Dick Cronk stared. "What's that got to do with me? Oh!" He appeared to recall something to mind. "I didn't mean anything like that," he hastened to explain. "As far as that goes, I guess you're in worse company than I am at the present moment."

With this enigmatic rejoinder he proceeded to collect three trophies of the battle and toss them over the high board fence. Three of their late enemies had neglected to pick up their hats as they scuttled off the field of carnage.

"None of them worth keeping," was his contemptuous remark as he started off briskly in the direction of the circus lot.

For the first time in many days the sun was shining. David announced that he would proceed on his walk toward the distant hills.

"Better come along with me," advised Dick, halting abruptly. "The cops will get wind of this. They jerk up a circus man on the slightest excuse. It's something of an honor, I believe, to land one of us in jail. The darned rubes talk about it for weeks afterwards, telling how they nailed a desperate character. Everybody connected with a show is a regular devil in their eyes. And that reminds me. I had my lamps on a couple of blue boys down the street as I came up. We'd better go up this alley."

The three of them turned into the narrow alley and walked briskly along, Dick Cronk regaling the perplexed David with airy comments on the methods employed by rustic police in their efforts to preserve the city from the depredations of circus followers and scalawags. He was a revelation to the young Virginian.

Despite his jaunty, casual manner, there was a certain keen watchfulness in his face, an alert gleam in his lively eyes. He seemed to be taking in everything as they ambled through the alley. When they approached the intersecting street his gaze seemed to project itself far ahead, even to the scouring of the thoroughfare in both directions.

"I think those two cops are still at the corner below," he remarked." We'll turn to the left without looking to the right."

They turned to the left.

"Yes," said Dick, who, so far as David could see, had not glanced to the right, "they're still there. Let me tell you one thing, pardner. If a cop ever stops you and begins asking questions, just you tell him you're a performer. You can always prove it, whether you are one or not." He drew forth a short black pipe. "Heigho! I'm glad to be back with the show." There was a world of satisfaction in the way he said it.

"Are you a performer?" asked David, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the long, supple figure. The fellow was filling his pipe.

Dick Cronk laughed softly. "Yes. I've been performing on the perpendicular bars for the past two weeks. Not the horizontal bars, mind you. Banks and Davis do that act. Climbing up and down the bars has been my job lately."

"You mean?"

"Even the innocent must suffer sometimes," quoth the nonchalant philosopher. It was sharply revealed to David that he had been in jail.

Three abreast they moved down the main street of the town, soon mingling with the throngs of country people in the neighborhood of the public square. Dick Cronk's hands were in his trouser pockets; his shoulders were thrown back, his chin elevated, his long legs stepping out freely, confidently. His stiff black hat was cocked airily over his right ear. He was rather flashily dressed, but he had the ease of manner that enabled him to carry his clothed with peculiar unobtrusiveness. They were threadbare and untidy, if you took the pains to look closely; but you never thought of looking closely; you merely took in the general effect, which was rather pleasing than otherwise.

The face of this debonair knight of Vagabondia was curiously attractive, though not what you would call handsome. The features were too pronounced, the lips too prone to twist into satirical grimaces. His dark hair grew rather low on his wide forehead; it always looked straight and damp. The nose was long and pointed. When he whistled— which was almost incessantly—the tip of it appeared to protrude at least half an inch farther out from his face and to assume a new elevation. His chin was square and his neck was long. Swift-moving gray eyes twinkled good-humoredly under a frank, open brow.

"Are you going to be with the show the rest of the summer?" asked David hesitatingly, at one stage of their conversation.

"I don't know," said the other, pursing his lips. "I can't say that I like Braddock's greedy ways. He wants too much in the divvy. There's plenty of shows nowadays that don't ask anything off of us. But Brad's got to have a slice of it. See? I've been thinking a little of Barnum or Van Amberg."

Ernie spoke up shrilly. "You bet your life he ain't going to leave the show." Dick turned pink about the ears.

"Never mind that, kid," he said uneasily. David instinctively knew that there was a girl in the balance.

Dick had the wonderful knack of "spotting" a policeman two blocks away. At times this quality in him was positively uncanny.

"I can see 'em through a brick wall," he said to David. "I guess it must be second sight."

"It's second smell," said Ernie briefly.

They came at length to the show grounds. Here, to David's amazement, every one they met greeted the tall youth with a shout of joy. He shook hands with all of them, from the hostler to the manager, from the "butcher" to the highest-priced performer, without any apparent distinction.

"Hello, Dick, old boy!" was the universal greeting.

"Hello, kid!" was his genial response, to young and old alike. Women, sunning themselves, waved their hands gayly at him; some of them wafted kisses—which he gallantly returned. Old Joey Noakes took his pipe out of his mouth, crinkled his face up into a mighty smile, and exclaimed:

"It's good for sore eyes to see you again, Dicky. How was it this time?"

"I liked the stone pile better than the chuck they gave us. Gee whiz, I'll never get pinched in that burg again."

David turned away for a moment to speak to some one. When he looked again, Dick Cronk had disappeared.

"Where is he?" he asked of old Joey.

"He's 'arf-way uptown by this time," said the clown quizzically.

"Who is he, Joey?"

Joey looked surprised. "Don't you know Artful Dick Cronk?" he demanded. "Why, Jacky, he's the slickest dip—that's short for pickpocket—in the United States. He's the king of all the glue- fingers, that boy is. My eye, 'ow he can do wot he does, I can't for the life of me see." He then went into a long dissertation on the astonishing accomplishments of Artful Dick Cronk.

"And you all associate with him?" cried David, openly surprised.

"Certain sure. Why not? He's the most honest dip I ever see. He wouldn't touch a thing belonging to one of us—not a thing. He works only on these 'ere rich blokes wot thinks we're scum and vermin. But, I say, Jacky," he interrupted himself to say sagely, "I wouldn't be seen with 'im too often if I was you. He does have to make some very sudden escapes sometimes, unexpected like, and I doubt if you can dodge as well as he can. If that feller was to give up lifting pocket- books, he could be the grandest lawyer in ten states. Wot he don't know about the law nobody else does. Experience is a wonderful teacher. He comes by 'is name rightly, he does,—Artful Dick. I've larfed myself sick many a time listening to 'ow he lifted things. Once he actually took a feller's pocket-book out of 'is inside westcut pocket, removed the bills, signed a little receipt for 'em, and then returned the leather to the gent's westcut. Later on he 'eard the chap was going to use the money to pay off a morgidge and that he 'ad a sick wife. Wot did Dick do but 'unt him up again and put the money back, removing the receipt and substituting a fifty-dollar bill be'd filched from a wise guy in a bank, all wrapped up in a little note telling the chap to give it to 'is wife with the compliments of Old Nick. I've larfed myself to sleep wondering wot the feller thought when he found the note!" "I've never seen any one just like him. He's a very odd person," said David. "I think I should like him in spite of what he is."

"Everybody likes him. He's so light-'earted he almost bursts with joy. He's followed us for two seasons, and I've never knowed 'im to do a mean or dishonorable thing," said Joey with perfect complacency. And yet Joey Noakes was the soul of integrity! David could not help laughing; whereupon the clown hastened to add: "Except to steal."

"I'm sorry he's that kind," deplored David.

"He's about twenty-one," said Joey, a retrospective light in his eye. "He first joined us as a sleight-o'-hand man in the side-show. That cussed little brother of 'is got a job taking tickets. Dick 'ad been in jail a couple of times and he decided to turn over a new leaf. He'd 'a' been all right if it 'adn't been for Ernie. Ernie didn't think he was making enough money by being honest, so he just naturally drove 'im to picking again. That boy is a little devil. You see, the trouble with poor Dick is, that he's set 'imself up to protect and provide for Ernie all 'is life. It seems that he's responsible for the deformity. When Ernie was five years old, Dick, who 'ad a wery disagreeable temper in them days, kicked the little cuss downstairs. The kid was laid up for months and he came out of it all twisted up—just as you see 'im now. Well, Dick never got mad at anybody after that. He wery properly swore he'd take care of Ernie and try to make up for wot he'd done to 'im. He said he'd beg or steal or kill if he 'ad to, to provide for 'im. He's never 'ad to beg or kill, I'm thankful to say. So, you see, he ain't altogether to blame for 'is occupation. Ernie's a miser. He wouldn't be satisfied with 'arf of a decent man's wages, if Dick minded to go to honest work; he must have 'arf of all Dick can steal, and he sets up a 'orrible rumpus if Dick don't make some good pulls. Ernie's excuse for 'is greediness is this: he says he wants to 'ave plenty to fall back on if Dick 'appens to get a long term in the pen. Who's going to support 'im, says he, while Dick's doing time? Wot do you think of that for brotherly love?"

"It's unbelievable!"

"He curses Dick in one breath and sweeties 'im in the next," went on Joey. "Wheedles 'im, don't you see. Once Dick was in the jug for two months. Ernie wanted to kill 'im afore he got out, he was that enraged at 'im for being so inconsiderate as to get caught. They say Ernie has several thousand dollars in a bank in New York, every nickel of which Dick stole for 'im. Dick spends 'is own share freely, or gives it away for charity, or—ahem! lends it to needy persons as 'appens to know 'im."

"Poor fellow! What a life! What is to become of him?" cried David, genuinely concerned.

"Oh, he's got all that set down in 'is book of fate, as he calls it. He says he's going to be 'anged some day. He's just as sure of it as he's sure he's alive."

"Just a morbid notion."

"Well, it's his antecedents, as the feller would say. In the family, so to speak. His father was 'anged for murder when Dick was eleven years old. I daresay it's got on 'is mind, poor lad."

"His father was hanged?" cried David, in a lowered tone. A swift shudder swept over him.

"He was," said Joey, refilling his pipe and preparing to scratch a sulphur match on his bandy leg. "And a good job it was, too. He was a 'ousebreaker, and he 'ad a wery gentle wife who prayed for 'im every night and tried to get 'im to give up the life on account of the children. One night he got drunk and shot a perfectly 'elpless old man whose 'ouse he was robbing. That's wot they swung 'im for. I daresay that's why Dick 'as never took to drink. He says it takes the polish off from a chap's ambition."

All this time, at the back of the "snack-stand" across the lot the Cronk brothers were engaged in earnest conversation, low-toned and serious, irascible on the part of the one, conciliatory on the part of the other.

"You know I give you half always, Ernie," said tall Dick, almost plaintively. "I never hold out on you."

"You say you don't," snarled the other between his teeth. "You got more than twenty dollars out of that guy last night, didn't you? I know you did."

"S' help me God, Ernie, I didn't get a—"

"He had nearly fifty dollars in the saloon."

"I don't know where it got to, then. I nipped only two tens, I swear, Ernie. Why, I wouldn't do you a dirty trick like that for the world."

"You done me a dirty trick once," grated the misshapen lad. "If it hadn't been for you I'd be as straight as anybody and I—"

"Don't begin on that again, Ernie," pleaded Dick. "Ain't you ever going to give me a rest on that? Ain't I trying to make up for it, the best I know how?"

"Yes, and didn't you let 'em catch you back there in Staunton? Is that the way you make it up? Letting me starve—almost." He glared at the ground. "Yes, if I was straight she'd look at me, too. She wouldn't look the other way every time I come around. Oh, you don't know how it feels! She'd go out walking with me instead of that Virginian smart aleck who killed his grandpa. But just see how it is, though! She won't look at me! She won't even look at me!"

A whole world of bitterness dwelt in that cry of despair.

"If I was straight like you, she'd—she might love me. She might marry me. Just think of it, Dick! I might get her." With the inconsistency of the selfishly irrational he added: "I've got plenty of money. I could give her fine clothes and—But, oh, what's the use? She hates to look at me. I—I hurt her eyes—yes, I hurt her eyes!"

It was pitiful. Greed and avarice had made a hateful little monster of him, and yet a heart of stone would have been touched by the misery in his eyes, the anguish on his lips. Dick murmured helplessly:

"May—maybe you can get her anyhow, Ernie. Maybe you can. Maybe— maybe."

But Ernie's emotion underwent a sudden change. Spitefulness leaped into his eyes; the wail of misery left his voice and in its place came shrill blasphemy. After he had cursed Dick and David Jenison to his heart's content he came to a standstill in front of his unhappy brother. Sticking out his lower jaw angrily he snapped:

"Where's the sapphire ring you got from the feller in Charlottesville?"

"I—I still got it."

"Oh, I see!" sneered Ernie, drawing back. "You're saving it to give to Ruby Noakes, eh? That's it, is it? Cheating me out of it to give to her. An engagement ring, eh? Say, you—"

"Hold on, Ernie," said Dick sternly. "I'm not going to do anything of the sort. Why—why, I couldn't give Ruby anything I'd stole. I couldn't!"

"Aw, but you don't mind giving me things you've stole. I'm different, am I? I'm not as good as she is, am I? Well, say, lemme tell you one thing: Ruby Noakes ain't going to hook up with a sneak thief."

"Ernie," said Dick, going very white and speaking very slowly, "you sometimes make me wish you'd 'a' died that time."

"I wish I had! Then they'd 'a' hung you."

"I was only nine," murmured Dick, trying to put his arm around his brother, only to have it struck away with violence.

"And I was only four," scoffed the other. "Say, let's see that ring."

Dick produced the sapphire. It was most unusual in him to carry the smallest part of his gains on his person. The circumstance struck Ernie at once.

"So you were going to give it to her," snapped he.

"She wouldn't take it if I were fool enough to offer it," said Dick quietly, dropping the ring into his brother's hand. It immediately found a new resting place in the latter's pocket.

"Maybe the other one will take it from me," he grinned.

"You'd better not try it, Braddock would kick you to death."

"Everybody wants to kick me," whined the other, taking a new turn. "But, say, he didn't offer to kick me last night when I told him she'd been out walking with that guy. I seen 'em—I seen 'em sneaking in. I told Brad. I bet he raised thunder with 'em."

Dick was looking out past the stand in the direction of the big tents.

"I'm not so sure," he said dryly. "I see Brad and Christine and the guy you mean talking over there by the entrance. They seem to be in a specially good humor."

Ernie sprang forward, his eyes dilated. He stared for a full minute without blinking. Then his grip on Dick's arm suddenly relaxed.

"Oh, God, how I wish I was straight and handsome like him!" he cried brokenly.

Dick did not look down, but he knew that the tears were standing in the boy's eyes.

"Don't think about it, Ernie," he began.

Ernie shook off his hand and angrily rubbed his eyes with his bony knuckles. He sobbed twice, and then burst forth in a shrill tirade of abuse. Quivering with ungovernable rage, he called Dick every vile name he could lay his proficient tongue to.

Poor Dick offered up no word of protest, no sign of resentment. When Ernie stopped for sheer exhaustion, not only of his lung power but in the matter of epithets, the tall martyr took his hands out of his pockets, stretched himself lazily, and announced, as if it were expected of him as a duty:

"Well, the crowd is beginning to gather at the ticket-wagon. I guess I'd better be strolling among 'em, Ernie. So long."

Ernie looked up eagerly, his mood changing like a flash.

"Good luck, Dick," he said, his eyes sparkling.



CHAPTER VIII

AN INVITATION TO SUPPER

That same night Artful Dick Cronk had a long conversation with Thomas Braddock. David was the principal subject of discussion. The airy scalawag was not long in getting to the bottom of the fugitive's history, so far as it could be obtained from the rather disconnected utterances of the convivial Thomas. They had come upon each other in a bar-room, but Dick had succeeded in getting the showman away from the place before he reached the maudlin stage. The day's business had been good. Braddock was cheerful, almost optimistic in consequence. He vociferously thanked his lucky sun, not his stars. Convinced that this was an uncommonly clever bit of paraphrasing, he repeated it at least a dozen times with great unction, always appending a careful explanation so that Dick would be sure to catch the point—or, you might say, the twist.

"If we only had sunshine like this," he announced with a comprehensive wave of his hand, regardless of the fact that it was ten o'clock at night, "I'd clear a million dollars this season. We've got nearly fifteen hundred dollars in that tent to-night, Dick. Twenty-one hundred on the day. A week of this beautiful sunshine and we'd be doing three thousand a day. I'd make old Barnum look like a two-spot. Did you ever see more beautiful sunshine, Dick? Now, did you?"

"That's not the sun, Brad," said Dick, removing his pipe from his lips. "That's a canvasman with a torch." They had arrived at the lot.

Braddock swore a mighty oath, and with jovial good-humor chucked Dick in the ribs, not very gently, it may be supposed. Dick, with responsive good-humor, seized the opportunity to deliver a resounding thump on Braddock's back, almost knocking the breath out of him. If one could have looked into the brain of the grinning pickpocket, he might have detected a vast regret that policy made it inadvisable to thump the showman on the jaw instead of the back. He had the satisfaction, however, of hearing the other cough violently for some little time.

"Don't be so rough," growled Braddock, taking a fresh cigar from his pocket to replace the one that had been expelled by the force of the blow.

"Excuse me," apologized Dick promptly. "Say," he went on, without waiting for or expecting forgiveness, "tell me something about this new clown of yours."

Whereupon Braddock lowered his voice and told him as much as he knew of the story. They sat on a wagon tongue at some distance from where the men were tearing down the menagerie tent. Dick Cronk puffed his pipe thoughtfully during the recital. One might have imagined that he was not listening.

"I don't believe he killed him," said he at the end of the story.

"Neither do I," said Braddock. "But it won't hurt to let him think that we're all still a leetle bit doubtful."

"I heard all about the murder in Staunton. The sheriff was trying to head the kid off if he came through that county. We were expectin' to see him landed in jail any day. They had bloodhounds after him, I hear." Dick Cronk's body quivered in a sharp spasm of dread.

"Say, Dick, listen here," said Braddock, leaning closer and dropping his voice to a half-whisper. "I've been wantin' you to turn up ever since he joined us. What will you say when I tell you he's got more 'n two thousand dollars with him?"

Dick started. "What!"

"He has. I've seen it. He's lousy with it."

"Well, he came by it honestly," said Dick after a moment.

"How do you know?" demanded the other insinuatingly.

"Honest men are so blamed scarce, Brad, that I can always tell one when I see him."

Braddock rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and back again before venturing the next remark.

"It would be no trick at all to get it away from him."

Dick Cronk looked at his averted face. "What do you mean?"

"Think of what a haul it would be."

"I suppose you want me to lift the pile. Is that it?"

"Not unless we come to a thorough understanding beforehand," said Braddock quickly. "It's my plan, so I get the bulk of it, understand that."

"I do the job and you get the stuff," sneered Dick, still looking at his companion. Braddock felt that look and moved uncomfortably.

"It's too much money to let get away," he explained somewhat irrelevantly.

"Then why don't you pinch it yourself? Why ask me to do it?"

Braddock turned upon him angrily. "Why, I'm no thief! I'll break your neck if you make another crack like that."

Artful Dick arose. "I'm not so easily insulted," he said with a queer little laugh. "But, say, Braddock, let me tell you one thing. I'm not going to touch that kid's wad, and you ain't either. I'm a friend of his'n, after what happened to-day. Put that in your pipe, Brad, and smoke it."

Braddock gulped painfully. "See here, Dick, don't be a fool. We can clean up a—"

"You'd take the pennies off a dead nigger's eyes," interrupted the pickpocket scathingly.

"I'd do anything to keep the show from busting," said the other with the air of a martyr. "Anything to save my wife's little fortune, and anything to keep my performers from going broke."

"I suppose your wife thinks it's all right to get this kid's money away from him," said Dick sarcastically.

"She—why, of course, she wouldn't know anything about it. She's so blamed finicky."

"Of course!" scoffed Dick.

"But she'd stand for it, if she ever did find it out. She needs the money just as much as I do, only she likes to appear sanctimo—"

"I hate a liar, Brad," said Dick coolly.

Braddock arose unsteadily. "You mean ME?"

"I do," said the thief to the liar. "You know you lie when you say she'd back you up in a game like that."

"I've a notion to smash you one."

"Here's your watch, Brad, and your pocketbook. I nipped 'em just now to see if I'm in practice. Oh, yes, and your revolver, too." He laughed noiselessly as he laid the three articles on the footrest of the wagon and turned away.

Braddock blinked his eyes. As he replaced the articles in their places, he said admiringly: "Well, you do beat the devil!"

When he turned, the pickpocket was nowhere to be seen. It was as if the earth had swallowed him.

Five minutes later Dick appeared quite mysteriously in the dressing- tent, coming from the skies, it seemed to David, who found him filling a space that had been absolutely empty when he stooped over an instant before to adjust his shoe-lacing.

"Hello, kid," said Dick easily. "Say, do you know there's a warrant for your arrest right now in the hands of the town marshal of this burg?"

David's heart almost stopped beating.

"How do you know?" he demanded.

"I just piped him and a Pinkerton guy I know by sight hunting up Braddock. Not three minutes ago. They were talking it over between 'em out there by the road. The detective's got a picture of you, he says. Somehow they've dropped on to it that the new clown is you. Evening, Mrs. Braddock."

The proprietor's wife came up, followed closely by Christine and Ruby, dressed for the street. In an instant David repeated the startling news.

"What is to be done?" cried Mrs. Braddock, aghast.

"They sha'n't take you, David," cried Christine.

"Where is my father?" fell from Ruby's frightened lips.

"Not a second to be lost," said Dick. "I've got a scheme. Come in here, kid, and let me get into the tights you've got on. Tell Joey, and put the rest of the crowd on to the game," he added to Ruby.

When the town marshal and the detective deliberately stalked into the dressing-tent a few minutes later, a nonchalant group of performers greeted them, apparently without interest.

The new clown was partly dressed, but he had not washed the bismuth and carmine from his lean face. Braddock, perspiring freely, came in behind the officers. He saw in a glance what had transpired. His cigar almost dropped from his lips.

"We want you," said the marshal, pushed forward by the detective. The new clown looked up, amazed, as the hand fell on his shoulder. "No trouble now," added the local officer, nervously glancing around him. He knew the perils attending the arrest of a circus performer in his own domain.

"What's the matter with you?" exclaimed Dick Cronk, jerking his arm away.

"I want you, David Jenison, for murder in—"

There was a roar of laughter from the assembled crowd of performers.

"Come off!" grinned Dick Cronk. "You're off your base, you rube. Let go my arm!"

"None of that now," said the detective. "I've got your picture here. The jig's up, young feller. It's no—"

"My picture?" ejaculated Dick in surprise. "Let's have a look at it. I never had my picture taken in my life."

The man held out a small solar print of a daguerreotype that David Jenison sat for the year before at college. While the marshal, in some trepidation, regained his grip on the prisoner's arm, the crowd of performers looked at the picture with broad grins on their faces.

"Wash up, Jacky," said Grinaldi, stifling a laugh.

"Let the rubes see what you really look like," added Signor Anaconda.

Dick Cronk proceeded to scrub away the make-up. When he lifted his face for inspection, the two officers glared at him in positive consternation.

"I guess I'm not the guy you're after," said Dick coolly. "A blind man could see that I don't look like that picture. My, what a nice-looking boy he is! A reg'lar lady-killer."

"You're not the man, that's dead sure," said the Pinkerton operative, perplexity written all over his face. "We've had a job put up on us," he explained, turning to Braddock. "Some smart aleck sent word to our branch that the real Jenison boy was a clown in this show. We got a note from some one who said he belonged to the show. They sent me up here on a chance that it was true. We had this picture in the office. The note says David Jenison joined the show three weeks ago. How long have you been with it?"

Dick Cronk was very cunning. "That's funny. I've been with it just three weeks. Say, I bet I know who put up this job on you." He turned to his friends. "It was that darned Jim Hopkins. He's always up to a gag of some sort."

"Where is he?" demanded the detective.

"The Lord knows," said Dick. "He ducked a couple of days ago. Gone to Cincinnati, I think he said. He works the shell game, and it got pretty hot for him after we left Cumberland. Well, say, this IS great! I guess the drinks are on the Pinkerton office. Thaw out, mister. Charge it to the Molly McGuires."

In the mean time David Jenison, attired in a street gown belonging to Madam Bolivar, the strong lady, was on his way to the hotel, accompanied by Mrs. Braddock, Christine and others of the sex he represented for the time being.

An hour later he stole away from the hotel, in his own clothes, and boarded a rumbling tableau wagon at the edge of the town, considerably shaken by his narrow escape, but full of gratitude to the resourceful pickpocket.

In the railroad yards Dick Cronk hunted out his brother Ernie, and, standing over him in a manner so threatening that the astonished hunchback shrank down in fear, he bluntly accused him of informing on David Jenison.

"I know you did it, Ernie," he said, when the other began to whimper his denials. "You've done a lot of sneakin' things, but this is the sneakin'est. If you ever peach on anybody again, I'll—well, I won't say just what I'll do. It'll be good and plenty, you can be I on that."

"What'll you do?" sneered Ernie, but cravenly.

"Something I didn't do the first time," announced Dick with deadly levelness. Ernie turned very cold.

"You wouldn't hurt me?" he whined.

"I'm through talkin' about it," said Dick, turning away. "Just you remember, that's all."

Colonel Bob Grand descended upon the show the following afternoon. His customary advent was always somewhat in the nature of a hawk's visitation among a brood of chickens: it was quite as disturbing and equally as hateful. Moreover, like the hawk, he came when least expected.

"Oh, how I loathe that man," whispered Christine to David. She was waiting for her turn in the ring, just inside the great red and gold curtains at the entrance of the dressing-tent. Tom Sacks was peeping through the curtains at the haze-enveloped crowd in the main tent. David and the slim girl in red were standing at the big gray horse's head and she was feeding sugar to the animal. The youth in the striped tights was a head taller than his companion—for David was then but an inch or two short of six feet and broadening into manhood.

Colonel Grand had just entered the dressing-tent with Christine's father, and was paying his most suave devotions to Mrs. Braddock across the way.

"When did he come?" asked David, filled with a sharp pity for the girl, who, as yet, could hardly have suspected the real object of his visits.

"An hour ago. David, why does he come so often?"

"I—I suppose he has business in these towns," he floundered uncomfortably.

"My mother hates him,—oh, how she hates him. I don't see why he can't see it and stay away from us. Of course, he's very rich, and he's a—a great friend of father's. They say Colonel Grand gambles and—and he leaves his wife alone at home for weeks at a time. I can't bear the sight of his face. It is like an animal's to me. Have you seen that African gazelle out in the animal top? The one with the eyes so close together and the long white nose? Well, that's how Colonel Grand looks to me. I've always hated that horrid deer, David. I see it in my dreams, over and over again, and it is always trying to butt me in the face with that awful white nose. Isn't it odd that I should dream of it so much?"

"It's just a fancy, Christine. You'll—you'll outgrow it. All children have funny dreams," he said with a lame attempt at humor.

"I'm fifteen, David," she said severely. "I don't like you to say such things to me. But," and she beamed a smile upon him that fairly dazzled, "I do love the way you pronounce my name. No one says it just as you do. I hate being called Christie. Don't you ever begin calling me Christie. Do you hear?"

"I've always loved Christine," he said frankly. Then he felt himself blush under the paint.

She hesitated, suddenly shy. "I've never liked David until now," she said. "I've always liked Absalom better. Reginald is my favorite name,—or Ethelbert. Still, as you say, I will doubtless outgrow them. Besides, you are not David. You are poor little Jack Snipe."

Her warm smile faded as she turned her eyes in the direction of Colonel Grand. The troubled look came back to them at once; there was a subtle spreading of her dainty nostrils.

"How I hate his smile," she said in very low tones.

Without looking at David again she passed through the curtains after Tom Sacks and made her way to the ring, a jaunty figure that gave no sign of the uneasiness that lurked beneath the joyous spangles.

David looked after her for a moment. He became suddenly conscious of the fact that Colonel Grand was staring at him across the intervening space. Turning, he met the combined gaze of the three persons who formed the little group. There was a comprehensive leer on the face of the Colonel.

In that instant there flashed through David's mind the conviction that Colonel Bob Grand was to play an ugly and an important part in his life. Again there came over him, as once before, the insensate desire to strike that gray, puttyish face with all his might.

He had been kept out of the ring during the early part of the performance, while Artful Dick and other cunning scouts were satisfying themselves that the Pinkerton man actually had given up the chase. As a matter of fact, the disgusted operative had been completely fooled, and was well on his way to Philadelphia, cherishing the prospect of a laugh at the expense of the superintendent who had sent him on the wild-goose chase.

David kept a wary eye open for the danger signal, which, however, was not to come. He saw the Braddocks and Colonel Grand leave the dressing-tent and pass into the open air. This time Braddock walked ahead with his unyielding wife. Apparently he was expostulating with her. She looked neither to right nor left, but walked on with her face set and her eyes narrowed as if in pain. Colonel Grand, the picture of insolent assurance, sauntered behind them, a beatific smile on his lips.

The Virginian was sitting on a property trunk, dejectedly staring at the ground when Christine returned from the ring. Thunders of applause had told him when the act was over; the change of tune by the band announced the beginning of the next act—that of the strong man and his wife. How well David remembered these sudden transitions. He almost longed to be out there now, in the thick of it, with good old Joey Grinaldi at his side, dodging the ringmaster's lash and grinning at the jokes of the veteran.

The girl came straight up to him, her anxious gaze sweeping the interior. She was about to speak to him, but changed her mind and hurried on to her dressing-room. An instant later she was back, greatly agitated. "Where is my mother?" she asked.

"They went away a few minutes ago," replied David, as unconcernedly as possible.

"Where? Where did they go, David?" she cried, her voice low with alarm.

"To the side-show, I think," prevaricated he.

He saw the look of relief struggling into her face.

"She—she always cries when she goes out with them together," she murmured piteously. "Oh, David, I'm so worried. I don't know why—I don't know what it is that causes me to feel this way. But I am frightened—always frightened."

He took her little hand between his own; it was trembling perceptibly. Very gently he sought to reassure her, his heart so full that his voice was husky with the emotion that crowded up from it.

"Nothing ever can happen to your mother, Christine—nothing. Please don't worry, little girl. Colonel Grand can't—won't do anything to hurt her. Your father won't let that happen. He won't—"

"David, I am not so sure of that," she said slowly, looking straight into his eyes and speaking almost in a monotone. He started. For a moment he was speechless.

"You must not say that, Christine," he said.

"I don't know why I said it," she responded, nervously biting her nether lip. Then she smiled, her white teeth gleaming against the carmine. "She'll be back presently, I know. I'm so silly."

"You are very young, you'll have to admit, after this display," he chided. She left him.

Joey Grinaldi came in a few minutes later and took his protege off to the ring, with the assurance that "the coast" was clear. All the rest of the afternoon David's heart ached with a dull pain. He could hardly wait for the time to come when he could return to the dressing-tent. At last, he raced from the ring, pursued by the inflated bladder in the hand of Joey Grinaldi, their joint mummery over for the afternoon.

Christine was sitting on the trunk that he had occupied so recently; Mrs. Braddock was nowhere in sight.

"David," she said slowly, as he drew up panting, "they did not go to the side-show."

He was spared the necessity of an answer by the providential return of the girl's mother. She came in alone from the main tent. A glance showed them both that she had been crying. Christine sprang forward with a little cry and slipped her arm through her mother's.

As they passed by David the mother's stiff, tense lips were moving painfully. He heard her say, as if to herself:

"I cannot—I will not endure it any longer. I cannot, my child."

David stood before her the next instant, his face writhing with fury, his hands clenched.

"Is—is there anything I can do, Mrs. Braddock? Tell me! Can I do anything for you?" he cried.

She stared for a moment, as if bewildered. Then her face lightened. The tears sprang afresh to her eyes.

"No, David," she said gently. "There is nothing you can do."

"But if there should be anything I can do—" he went on imploringly. She shook her head and smiled.

As soon as he could change his clothes David hurried out to the menagerie tent. For many minutes he stood before the cage containing the African gazelle, fascinated by the nose and eyes of the lachrymose beast. He stared for a long time before becoming aware that the animal was looking at him just as intently from the other side of the bars. It was as if the creature with the broad white muzzle and limpid eyes was studying him with all the intentness of a human being. An uncanny feeling took possession of the boy. He laughed nervously, half expecting the solemn starer to smile in return—with the smile of Colonel Grand. But the deer's eyes did not blink or waver, nor was there the slightest deviation of its melancholy gaze.

A voice from behind addressed the lone spectator.

"Attractive brute, isn't he?"

David turned. Colonel Grand was standing a few feet away, gazing with no little interest at the occupant of the cage.

Young Jenison did not reply at once. He was momentarily occupied in a mental comparison of the two faces.

"It is our latest curiosity from the wilds of Africa," he said, his eyes hardening. A Jenison could not look with complacency on a man who, first of all, had fought against his own people, even though one Jenison had been a traitor to the cause.

"The only one in captivity," quoted the Colonel. He had the smooth, dry voice of a practiced man of the world.

"That's what they say on the bills, sir." He was walking away when the other, with some acerbity, called to him.

"What's your name?"

"Snipe, sir," said David, after a second's hesitation.

"I've seen you back there in the dressing-tent. You don't look like a circus performer."

"I am a clown," observed David coolly.

Colonel Grand came up beside him. They strolled past several cages before either spoke again.

"You are new at the business," remarked the older man. David felt that the Colonel was looking at him, notwithstanding the fact that they seemed to be engaged in a close inspection of the cages.

"I am a beginner. Joey Grinaldi is training me."

Thomas Braddock was watching them from beyond the camel pen.

"It may interest you to know that I am accustomed to civility in all people employed by this show," said Colonel Grand levelly.

"Do you always get what you expect?" asked David, stopping short.

The Colonel faced him.

"Young man," said he, after a deliberate pause, "let me add to my original remark, I always get what I expect."

"Then I suppose you expect me to sever my connection with this show," said David, looking straight into his eyes.

The Colonel smiled. "Your real name is Jenison, isn't it?"

"Yes," said David defiantly. The Colonel was startled. He had not expected this, at any rate.

"And you are wanted for murder, I understand."

"Yes."

"By George, you take it coolly," exclaimed the other, not without a trace of admiration in his voice.

"Why should I equivocate?" demanded David coldly. "You are in possession of all the facts. What do you intend to do about it?"

The Colonel's eyes narrowed. There was not the slightest trace of anger in his manner, however.

"I intend to have your wages increased," he said quietly.

David could not conceal his surprise, nor could he suppress the gleam of relief that leaped to his eyes.

"I don't understand," he muttered.

"I expect you to remain with this show until the end of the season," said the Colonel grimly.

David pondered this remark for a moment.

"I may not care to stay so long as that—" he began, puzzled by the Colonel's attitude toward him.

"But you will stay," said the other, fastening his gaze on David's chin—doubtless in the hope of seeing it quiver. "If you attempt to leave this show, I will—Well, a word to the wise, young man."

"You don't own this show!" flared David. "And you can't bully me!"

Not a muscle moved in the face of the tall Colonel. In slow, even tones he remarked: "I am not cowardly enough to bully a wretch whom I can hang."

In spite of himself, David shrank from this cold-blooded rejoinder.

"See here, Jenison," went on Colonel Grand, noting the effect of his words, "I have a certain amount of respect for your feelings, because you are a Southerner, as I am. You have pride and you have courage. You are a gentleman. You are the only gentleman at present engaged in this profession, I'll say that for you. There is a probability that you may not be so unique in the course of a week or two. I am already a part owner of this concern. You know that, of course. It is pretty generally known among the performers that I have a creditor's lien on the business. I wish you would oblige me by announcing to your friends that I have taken over a third interest in the show in lieu of certain notes and mortgages. From to-day I am to be recognized as one of the proprietors of Van Slye's Circus. Do you grasp it?"

David, a great lump in his throat, merely nodded.

"Considerable of my time henceforth will be spent with the show. I intend to elevate you to better associations. You are of my own class. I'm going to give you the society that you, as a Jenison of the Virginia Jenisons, deserve. It won't be necessary for you to mingle with pickpockets and roustabouts and common ring performers. There will be a select little coterie. I fancy you can guess who will comprise our little circle—our set, as you might call it. There are better times ahead for you, Jenison. Your days of riding in a tableau wagon are over. I shall expect you to join our exclusive little circle—where may be found representatives of the best families in the South and North. Portman, Jenison and Grand. Splendid names, my boy. Ah, I see Mr. Braddock over there. We are dining this evening at the best restaurant in town. Will you join us? Good! I shall expect you at six."

He had not removed his eyes from the paling face of his auditor at any time during this extraordinary speech. He saw surprise, dismay, perplexity and indignation flit across that face, and in the end something akin to stupefaction. Without waiting for David's response to the invitation—which was a command—he smiled blandly and walked away in the direction of the camel pen.

For a full minute Jenison stood there, staring after him, his heart as cold as ice, his arms hanging nerveless at his sides. The real, underlying motive of the man was slow in forcing itself into his brain.

He was to be used! He was to be made a part of the ugly web Colonel Grand was weaving about the unhappy Braddocks!

All the innate chivalry in the boy's nature sprang up in rebellion against this calm devilry. A blind rage assailed his senses. For the moment there was real murder in his heart; his vision was red and unsteady; his whole body shook with the tumult of blood that surged to his brain. Impelled by an irresistible force, his legs carried him ten paces or more toward the object of his loathing before his better judgment revived sufficiently to put a check on the mad impulse. Instead of rushing on to certain disaster, he conquered the desire to strike for his own pride and for the honor of the woman in the case; he had the good sense to see that he could gain no lasting satisfaction by physical assault upon the man nor could he expect to help matters by reproaching Thomas Braddock for the miserable part he was playing in the affair.

Covered with shame and anger, he abruptly hurried away from the scene of temptation, making his way to the dressing-tent, where he hoped to find Joey Grinaldi.

The clown met him at the entrance to the main tent. It was apparent that he had been waiting there for his protege.

"Joey!" cried David, all the bitterness in his soul leaping to his lips, "do you know what has happened?"

Joey's quaint old visage was never so solemn. His pipe was out; it hung rather limply in his mouth.

"Mrs. Braddock 'as told me," he said. "They 'ad to do it. They owed 'im nearly seventeen thousand dollars."

"What is to become of her—and Christine?" cried the boy, his face working.

"The good God may take care of 'em," returned the clown slowly. He puffed hard at his cold pipe. "I'm not surprised at wot's 'appened, Jacky. It's part of 'is game. Some day afore long he'll kick Braddock out of the business altogether. That's the next step. She can't do anything, either. All she's got in the world is in this 'ere show. If —if she'd only go back home to her father! But, dang it, she swears she won't do that. She'll work in the streets first."

"She can have all I've got," announced David eagerly.

"She ain't the kind to give up this 'ere property without a fight, Jacky. They'll 'ave to make it absolutely impossible for her to stay afore she'll knuckle to 'em. She's got pluck, Mary Braddock 'as. I know positive she 'as more 'n twenty thousand in this show. She put most of it in a couple of years ago when Brad swung over the deal with Van Slye. Since then she's put the rest in to save the shebang. I say, Jacky, I observed you a-talking to him. Wot is he going to do with you? Give you the bounce?"

"No," said David, clenching his hands. Then he repeated all that had taken place in the menagerie tent.

"I will not sit at table with that beast," he exclaimed in conclusion.

Joey led him off to a less conspicuous part of the tent. He appeared to be turning something over in his mind as they walked along.

"Jacky, I know it goes 'ard with a gentleman like you to sit down with a rascal like 'im, but I fancy you'll 'ave to lump your pride and do wot he arsks."

"I'm—I'm hanged if I do!" cried the other.

"Well, now, just look at it from another point," said Joey earnestly. "You can't afford to oppose 'im right now. Besides, there's others as needs you. There's got to be some one in the party to look out for Mrs. Braddock and Christine. Brad won't, so you're the one. Stick to 'em, Jacky, and if needs be, the whole show will back you up. You just go to supper with 'em."

"You're right, Joey," said David, his face flushing. "They stood by me, I'll stand by them."

"The restaurant is down the main street near the 'otel," explained the old clown. "Ruby and me will walk down with you. And, by the way, I've been talking with Dick Cronk about you. He arsked me to tell you to be mighty careful of that wad o' money." Joey winked his left eye. "He's a terrible honest sort of chap, Dick is, so I told 'im you'd put it in a bank. Which relieved 'im tremendous. He's took a fancy to you, and he says he's working on a scheme to get you out of all your troubles at 'ome."

"Oh, if there is only a way to do it!" cried David fervently. "If I could go back to dear old Jenison Hall, Joey! I could give them a home—for all their lives. I would do it. And you could come there, Joey—you and Ruby. Oh, you don't know how I long to be there. My old home! I—I—"

"Don't get excited now, laddie," warned old Joey. He spent a minute in calculation. "That there Dick Cronk is a mighty cute chap. You never can tell wot he's got in that noddle of 'is. No, sir, you never can tell."



CHAPTER IX

A THIEF IN THE NIGHT

That supper was one of the incidents in David Jenison's life always to stand out clear and undimmed. The party of five sat at a table in a remote corner of the dingy little eating-house. At no time were they free from the curious gaze of the people who filled the place, a noisy bumptious crowd of country people making the most of a holiday. The glamour was over them. Some one had recognized "Little Starbright" in the simply clad, demure young girl; the word was passed from table to table. She was stared at and whispered about from the time she entered the place until she left.

David, alert and dogged, soon forgot the boorishness of the country- folk, however, in the painful study of conditions near at hand. Colonel Grand, the host, was most affable. More than that, he was tactful. While there was an unmistakable air of proprietorship in his manner, he had the delicacy or the cleverness not to allow it to become even remotely oppressive. He managed it so that the conversation was carried on almost entirely by the two men. Now and then the three palpably unwilling guests were drawn into it, but with such subtlety on the part of their host that they were surprised into a momentarily active participation. Thomas Braddock, cleanly shaven and rather uncomfortably neat as to the matter of linen, was garrulous to the point of noisiness. He confined his remarks to the Colonel, or, in a general way, to the tables near by, with an occasional furtive glance at his wife's set, unsmiling face by way of noting the effect on her. The topics were commonplace enough: the weather, the prospects ahead, the improvements to be made in the show as business got better.

Mrs. Braddock, who sat at the Colonel's left, was so noticeably pale and repressed that David wondered if she would be able to go to the end of the wretched travesty without fainting. Unutterable despair hung over her lowered eyelids; it stood out plainly in the lines at the corners of her mouth. Christine seldom looked up from her plate. She sat next to David. He felt the restraint and embarrassment under which the girl suffered. Her cheek went red on more than one occasion when her father's coarse humor offended her delicate sensibilities; she paled under the veiled, insinuating compliments of the other. Once David's hand accidentally touched hers, below the edge of the table. His strong fingers at once closed over hers and for many minutes he held them tight, unknown to any but themselves. The dark lashes drooped lower on her cheeks; he could almost detect the flutter in her throat.

The ghastly meal drew to a close. The Colonel, leaning forward, was gazing through half-closed lids at the profile of the woman beside him. His long, white fingers fumbled with an unused spoon beside her plate. Once she had hitched her chair a little farther away from his, —an abrupt proceeding that had not failed to attract David's attention.

"Well, we will have many of these jolly little spreads," he was saying in his oiliest tones. "Birds of a feather, you know. Ha, ha! That's rather a clever way of putting it, eh, Jack?"

Braddock laughed boisterously. He had lighted a cigar regardless of the waiter's polite announcement that smoking was not allowed.

"Yes, we will dine together frequently. I like these gay little affairs," went on the Colonel, not even attempting to conceal his shrug of disgust for Braddock. "I am leaving for home to-night, but I expect to return in two or three days. You must all join hands in breaking me into the circus business. Don't let me be a—what is it you call it? A rube, that's it. We'll be the show's happy family. Every circus has a 'happy family.' Yes, 'pon my soul, I like the life. I do enjoy these quiet, impromptu little suppers."'

David was suddenly conscious that Braddock's eyes were upon him. He met the gaze, curiously impelled. The man's face was almost purple; the look in his eyes was not of anger, but of a shame that sprung from what little there was of manhood left in him. Braddock looked away quickly, and an instant later announced that it was time to get back to the "lot."

In front of the restaurant they came upon Artful Dick Cronk. The pickpocket made no attempt to speak to them, but when his eye caught David's, he closed it slowly in a very expressive wink.

Braddock hurried on ahead, explaining that he was obliged to look after something at the grounds.

"I'll look after them," said the Colonel affably. "With Jack's assistance," he supplemented. Christine clutched her mother's arm. The Colonel and David dropped behind, for the narrow sidewalk was crowded. In this fashion they made their way to the show grounds. Mrs. Braddock and Christine did not once look behind. Colonel Grand chatted amiably with his young companion, but never for an instant was his gaze diverted from the straight, proud figure of the woman ahead.

He entered the dressing-tent with them. There he quietly said good-by to the three of them. The tears of indignation were still standing in Christine's eyes. He willfully misinterpreted their significance. A hateful tenderness came into his voice, but it did not disturb the sneer on his lips.

"Don't cry, little one; it is only for a few days," he said.

Christine's face flamed.

"It's—it's not because you are going away!" she cried in angry astonishment. "I wish you would never come back! Never!"

He smiled broadly. "Dear me! And I thought we were getting on so nicely. Pray control yourself, my dear. I had no idea you could be so ferocious. Who does she get it from, Mary?"

Mrs. Braddock started as if stung. Her eyes dilated. It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name.

"How dare you?" she cried, her breast heaving with suppressed anger.

He shook his head dejectedly. "I have much to learn, it seems."

She opened her lips to say more, but reconsidered, and abruptly turned away, drawing Christine after her into the women's section.

Colonel Grand turned to David. "Young man," he said sharply, "I don't like the way you look at me. Stop! Not a word, sir! I have taken up the show business seriously. I find that our animal tamers are entirely competent. What we need here is a tamer for vicious and ungentle bipeds. There is a way to tame them, just as there is a way to break the spirit of the lion or the tiger. It shall be my special duty to deal with these unruly human beings. I hope you grasp my meaning. It would not be to my liking to begin my experiments on a young gentleman of Virginia."

"Sir, you've already begun!" cried David in a choking voice. "You may do what you like with me, but you've just got to let her alone. You—"

Colonel Grand held up his hand. David seemed to be gasping for breath.

"That's the very thing I like about you, Jack," said his late host derisively. "I can always depend upon you to look after the ladies. They will be absolutely safe while you are with them. There is a distinct advantage in having a real gentleman about. You see, I can't always be on hand to—to protect them from such bullies as Thomas Braddock."

His allusion to Braddock was strikingly impersonal.

"I am making you my first lieutenant—no, my aide-de-camp, Jack. All you are required to do is to obey orders. Don't run the risk of a court-martial, my lad. It occurs to me that an uncle of yours has had an experience of that—but, never mind. Your first duty, sir, is to convince the ladies that I shall expect them to be in better humor when I return from the East."

The words came from his lips with biting emphasis; the smooth oily tone was gone. There was no pretense now; he was showing his fangs.

David could only glare at him, white to the lips. He could not speak. He could only look the hatred that welled in his heart. But down in that heart he was telling himself that some day he would crush this monster.

Colonel Grand studied the clean-cut, aristocratic face for a moment. A conciliatory smile came to his lips.

"Don't forget that I am doing you a good turn," he said. "Christie is a very pretty girl. She's fond of you. If you're smart, you'll make the most of her. You ought to thank me instead of—ah, but I see you do thank me." He willfully misjudged the expression on David's face." I see no reason why you can't spend a most agreeable season with us. Jack."

"Colonel Grand," said David very slowly, controlling himself admirably, "if it were not that I now regard it as my sacred duty to stay with this show, I would defy you, sir, and denounce you, let the consequences be as disastrous to me as you like. I am not afraid of you. I can go back home—to jail—with my head up and my heart clean, if you choose to send me there. I am not afraid of even that. But I am afraid of something else. That is why I am ready to bear your insults, to humble myself, to submit to your—your commands. Not for my own safety, but for the safety of others. Permit me, sir, as a gentleman, to assure you that you can depend on me to carry out at least a part of your instructions as faithfully as God will let me. I mean by that, sir, your instructions to protect the ladies!"

He turned on his heel and left the Colonel standing there, a flush mounting to his flabby cheek.

"Braddock," he said, a few minutes later," I'm going to break that Jenison boy if it takes me a year—yes, ten years."

"What's up?" demanded Braddock, rolling his cigar over uneasily. "Been sassing you?"

"People of his class do not sass, as you call it," said Colonel Grand shortly.

"Well, shall I kick him out of the show?" asked the other, perplexed. Remembering David's money, he supplemented quickly: "Say in a week or two?"

"No. That is just what I don't want you to do. He stays, Braddock. Understand?"

"All right," agreed the other hastily. "I like the kid. He's good company for Christie, too. Tony sort of a chap, ain't he? I can tell 'em every pop. I said to my wife that first night—"

"Yes, yes, you you've told me that," interrupted Grand impatiently. "You keep him here, that's all. When I'm through with him you may kick him out. There won't be much left to kick."

For a long time after the departure of his new partner, Thomas Braddock's attitude of extreme thoughtfulness puzzled those who took the trouble to observe him. At last, when his cigar was chewed to a pulp and the night's performance was half over, light broke in upon him. He fancied that he had solved the Colonel's designs regarding David Jenison. His face cleared, but again clouded ominously; he conversed with himself, aloud.

"By thunder, if he thinks I'm going to let him gobble up that kid's money, he's mistaken. Why didn't I think of this before? I might have known. It's the long green he's after. I wonder who told him about the two thousand." He scratched his head in sudden perplexity. "I wonder what's got into Dick Cronk. He's too blamed good, all of a sudden. That brother of his might try the job, but—no, he'd bungle it. Besides, he'd probably stick a knife into Davy if the kid made a motion." He began chewing a fresh cigar; his pop-eyes were leveled with unseeing fierceness at a certain patch in the "main top"; his brain was seeing nothing but that packet of banknotes. How to get it into his possession: that was the question that produced the undiverted stare and the lowering droop at the corners of his mouth.

"I've got to get that wad," he was saying to himself, over and over again, with almost tearful insistence. Driven by the value of propinquity, he finally made his way to the dressing-tent. The performers were surprised to find him unnaturally sober and quite jovial. A certain nervousness marked his manner. He chatted amiably with the leading men and women in his company; the fact that he removed the cigar from his lips while conversing with Ruby Noakes and the Iron-jawed Woman, created no little amazement in them. He was especially gentle with his wife, and superlatively so with his daughter, both of whom were slow to show the slightest sense of responsive warmth. He proudly, almost belligerently, proclaimed Christine to be the loveliest creature that ever stepped into the sawdust ring. In spite of that fact, however, it was his plan to have her retire at the end of the season, when, if all went well, she was to go to a splendid school for young ladies.

Mrs. Braddock eyed him narrowly. She was searching for the cause of this sudden ebullience, this astounding surrender to her own views regarding their daughter. As for Christine, she was more afraid of him than she had been in all her life. This new mood suggested some vague, undefinable trouble for her mother. The girl's rapidly developing estimate of her father was taking away all the illusions she had been innocently cherishing up to the last few weeks. To her horror, she was beginning to look for something sinister in all that he undertook to do or say.

Unable to face the speculative anxiety in the eyes of his wife and child, Braddock edged off to the men's section of the tent. His furtive, nervous glances about the small apartment escaped the notice of the men who were changing their apparel. To his own disgust, a cold perspiration began to ooze out all over his body—the moisture of extreme nervousness and indecision. He took a stiff pull at his brandy flask.

His shifting gaze ultimately rested on David Jenison's neatly deposited clothing. The boy was in the ring. His "street-wear" lay on a "keester" somewhat apart from the heterogeneous pile of men's apparel on the adjacent boxes. David's "pile" was close to the outside wall of the tent. Braddock marked its location in respect to a certain side pole. He began to tremble; a weakness fell upon him; the resolution partly formed in the big tent, and which had drawn him resistlessly to this very spot, gained strength as his blinking eyes swerved their gaze from time to time in the direction of the "pile." All the while he was talking volubly and without a sentient purpose.

After fifteen minutes he sauntered from the section, cold with apprehension but absolutely determined on the action which was to follow. Leaving the tent, he strolled off toward the ticket wagon, carefully noting the position of the men who were loading the menagerie tent for the trip ahead. A cautious detour brought him back to the dressing-tent, and directly in front of the spot where David's clothing was deposited.

The trembling increased. His mouth filled with saliva. He felt of his hair. It was wet. As he stood there shivering and irresolute, the band struck up the tune that signified much to his present venture,—the tune heralding the approach of the entire company of male performers in the "ground and lofty tumbling act." It meant that the men's section would be entirely deserted for five or ten minutes.

Thomas Braddock was not a thief. He never had stolen anything in his life. He did not intend to steal now. Before he entered the dressing- tent, half an hour ago, he had justified himself unto himself: he was not going to steal David's money. His purpose was an honest one, or so his conscience had been resolutely convinced. He meant to surreptitiously borrow the idle money, that was all. Toward the end of the season, when he was vastly prosperous—as he was sure to be—he would go to David and restore the money, with interest; whereupon the grateful young man would fall upon his neck and rejoice. He needed the money. David did not need it.

What would his wife say if she came to know of this? What would Christine think of him? They were harsh questions and they troubled him. But above these questions throbbed a still greater one—the one that made his body damp with fear: was the money still in the boy's pocket, or was he carrying it with him in the ring?

Of one thing he was sure: David trusted to the integrity of his fellow performers. As for that, so did Thomas Braddock. In all his experience with circus performers he had never known one of them to steal; somewhat irrelevantly he reminded himself that circus women were notably chaste. No; David's money was quite safe in that dressing- tent.

Two full minutes passed before he could whip the conscience into submission. It was, as it afterwards turned out to be, the last stand of the thing called honor as it applied to whiskey-soaked Tom Braddock. Then he shot forward across the black shadows to the side pole he had been glaring at for a quarter of an hour. Through the lacings in the sidewall he saw that the section was empty.

When David put his hand inside the lining of his waistcoat an hour later, he turned pale and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. For an instant he permitted them to sweep the laughing, unconscious group of men surrounding him.

"Joey," he said a moment later, taking the clown aside, "my pocketbook is gone."

"Wot!" gasped Joey. "'Ave you lost it?"

"It has been stolen."

Joey's face grew very sober. "Don't say that, Jacky. It was in your ves'cut—as usual?"

"Yes. The lining is slashed with a knife."

"Jacky, are you sure?" almost groaned the clown. "Why—why, there ain't nobody 'ere as would steal a pin. No, sir, not one of—"

"I know that, Joey," said David. He was very white and his eyes were heavy with pain. "I know who stole it."

Grinaldi looked up sharply. Something darted into his mind like a flash of lightning.

"You—you don't mean—"

"I won't say the name. And you mustn't say it either, Joey. But I am as sure of it as I am sure my heart beats. Casey said he—the man came in here for half an hour—I can't believe he is a thief! Joey, they must never know. We must not mention this thing to any one. I don't mind the money. It is nothing—"

Joey wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"Right-o! Not a blooming word. I see your meaning. By Gripes, he's sinking pretty low. But," hopefully," mebby he didn't do it."

"I hope he didn't, but—" The boy shuddered. "Joey, I passed him as I came from the ring awhile ago. He was leaning against a quarter pole. The look he gave me was so queer, so ferocious, that I turned away; I couldn't understand it. But I do now, Joey. It's as clear as day to me. He had discovered that instead of twenty-five hundred dollars, there were but six ten-dollar notes in that pocketbook. Do you understand? He was black with rage and disappointment—"

"I see! Well, blow me, I—I—" Here Joey began to chuckle. "He's wondering where the balance of it is. He was trying to look through your shirt, Jacky. He—"

"Do you remember that he followed us in here and watched us change clothes? Well, I noticed that he never took his eyes off me. He was watching to see if I had anything hidden about me—a belt, a package, or—anything. Joey, it's as plain as day."

"And he did kick that little property boy a minute ago. I remember that. He is mad! He's crazy mad, Jacky, we've got to keep our eyes peeled, you and me—and another pusson, too. We got to stand by tonight to protect 'er. He probably thinks that pusson can tell 'im where it is."

But Thomas Braddock was not thinking of his wife in connection with the disappointment that had come to him in that last hour of degradation. He was thinking of Colonel Bob Grand and wondering what magic influence he had exercised over the boy to compel him to deliver so much money into his hands. Down in the darkest corner of his soul he was cursing Bob Grand for a scheming thief, and David Jenison for a hopeless imbecile.

Before the wagons were well under way for the next stand he was dead drunk in the alley back of the hotel bar, having first thrashed a porter who undertook to eject him from the place.

Mrs. Braddock and Christine waited for him at the lot until the men began to pull down the dressing-tent. David was with them. Not far away was Joey Noakes, the center of a group of performers, held together by his wonderful tale concerning the sensational bit of pocketpicking that had occurred early in the evening. A congressman had been "touched" for his purse and three hundred dollars while waiting for a train at the depot. The town was wild over the theft.

In the midst of the narrative, Artful Dick sauntered up to the group, coming, it seemed, from nowhere. The gossiper abruptly stopped his tale.

"They say it's going to rain before morning," said Dick airily. "You guys will get rust on your joints if you stay out in it. Ta-ta! I'm looking for my brother. Seen him?"

He strolled on, as if he owned the earth.

"That feller'll be as rich as the devil some day, if he keeps on," said one of the group.

That was the mild form of opprobrium that followed Artful Dick into the shadows. As he passed by the Braddocks and David, he doffed his derby gallantly. To this knowing chap there was something significant in the dreary, half-hearted smile that the mother and daughter gave him. At any rate, he took a second look at them out of the corner of his eye.

"Brad's up to something," he thought.

The smile he bestowed upon Ruby Noakes, who stood near by with several of the women, was all-enveloping. Ruby's dark eyes looked after him until his long, jaunty figure disappeared in the darkness.

"Too bad he's a thie—what he is," ventured the Iron-jawed Woman pityingly. She addressed the reflection to Ruby, who started and then positively glared at the speaker.

David escorted Mrs. Braddock and Christine to the hotel, where he also was to "put up" under the new dispensation. They had but little to say to each other. A deep sense of restraint had fallen upon them. He understood and appreciated their lack of interest in anything but their own unexpressed thoughts. As for himself, he was sick at heart over the discovery he had made. Not for all the world would he have added to their unhappiness by voicing the thoughts that were uppermost in his mind, rioting there with an insistent clamor that almost deafened him.

Christine's father was a thief!

From time to time, as they walked down the dark, still street, he glanced at her face, half fearing that his thoughts might have reached her by means of some mysterious telepathic agency. Even in the shadows her face was adorable. He could not see her dark eyes, but he knew they were troubled and afraid. He would have given worlds to have taken her in his arms, then and there, to pour into her little sore heart all the comfort of his new-found adoration.

For days it had been growing upon him, this delicious realization of what she had come to stand for in his life. She had crept into his heart and he was glad. Innate gallantry and a sense of the fitness of things had kept him from uttering one word of love to this young, trusting, unconscious girl. He was very young—stupidly young, he felt—but he was old enough to know that she would not understand. He was content to wait, content to watch. The time would come when he could tell her of the love that was in his heart; but it was not to be thought of now.

He walked between them, carrying Mrs. Braddock's handbag. Christine refused to burden him with hers. As they neared the business section of the town—one of the Ohio River towns—they encountered drunken men and merry-makers. A particularly noisy but amiable group approached them from the opposite direction. Christine nervously clutched David's arm. She came very close to him. He was thrilled by the contact. After the revelers had lurched by them, she gave an odd little laugh and would have removed her hand. He pressed his arm close to his side, imprisoning it. She looked up quickly, a sharp catch in her breath. Then she allowed her hand to rest there passively.

They were nearing the hotel when David impulsively gave utterance to the hungry cry that was struggling in his throat:

"Oh, Mrs. Braddock, if I were free to go back to Jenison Hall! I could ask you and Christine to come there and stay. You'd love it there. It's the finest old place in—"

"Why, David!" cried Mrs. Braddock in surprise.

"Forgive me!" he cried abjectly.

"Oh, I should love it—I should love it, David," cried Christine in a low, wistful voice. It seemed to him that there was a strange, mysterious wail at the back of the words.

Mrs. Braddock uttered a short, bitter laugh. "How good you are, David. What would your friends think if you took circus people there to visit you?"

He replied with grave dignity. "My friends, Mrs. Braddock, include the circus people you mention. I am not likely to forget that you took me in and—"

"And made a clown of you," she interrupted. He was gratified to see a smile on her lips. The light from a window shone in her face. Her eyes were wet and glistening.

He held his tongue for a moment, wavering between impulse and delicacy. His gaze went to Christine's half-averted face. He was moved by sudden apprehension. Was she beginning to suspect the real attitude of Colonel Bob Grand toward her mother? Was it something more than mere antipathy that filled her heart?

"See here, Mrs. Braddock," he began hastily, "I'm right young to be saying this to you, but I want you to know that I am terribly distressed by what has taken place in—in your life. I know you hate Colonel Grand. I know he is a bad man. His new interest in this show is the outgrowth of an old one."

She started. Her eyes were full upon his face.

"You are not likely to know any more peace or happiness here. Why don't you give it up? Why don't you leave the show? Why—"

"David," she said, laying her hand on his arm, "you don't know what you are saying."

"You could go back to your father," he went on ruthlessly. "I know it would be all right. He would not—"

She interrupted him quickly.

"Who has been talking to you of my affairs?"

He bit his lip. "Why, I—well, Joey Grinaldi. He is your best, truest friend. He told me all—"

Christine was leaning forward, peering past him at her mother's averted face. The girl's clutch on his arm tightened perceptibly.

"Mother," she said wonderingly, "what does he mean? Isn't—isn't your father dead? What is it that Joey Noakes has told you, David?"

David realized and was dumb with a sort of consternation. Mrs. Braddock hesitated for a moment, and then said to him, drear despair in her voice:

"Poor David! You don't know what you have done. No, Christine, my father is not dead. Be patient, my darling; I will tell you all there is to tell."

"To-night?" half whispered Christine, dropping David's arm, moved by the horrid fear that there was some dark secret in her life which was to put a barrier between him and her forever.

"Yes, my dear."



CHAPTER X

LOVE WINGS A TIMID DART

The circus encountered vile weather from that time on. Day after day, night after night, during the last two weeks in June, there was rain, with raw winds that chilled and depressed the strollers. The route of the show ran through the Ohio River valley, ordinarily a profitable territory at that time of the year. July would see the show well started for the northern circuit, where the floods were less troublesome and the weather bade fair to turn favorable. So bad were the floods in one particular region that the concern was obliged to cancel dates in three towns, lying idle in a God-forsaken river-place for two wretched days and traveling as if pursued by devils on the third. The horses, overworked and half starved, obtained a much-needed rest.

Performers and employees alike grew taciturn and absorbed in speculation as to the immediate future. No one believed that the show could continue against such distressing odds. At no performance were the receipts half adequate to the requirements; each clay saw the enterprise sink deeper into a mire of debt from which there was no apparent prospect of escape. The characteristically ebullient spirits of the performers surrendered at last to the superstitions that persistently obtruded themselves upon the notice of individuals. All manner of "bad luck" signs cropped out to sustain this multitude of beliefs. Every one was resorting to his luck stone or an amulet. Even David Jenison, sensible lad that he was, fell under the spell of superstition. He carried a "luck piece" given him by Ruby Noakes, and not once but many times was he guilty of calling upon it for relief from the general misfortune.

A bloody fight on the circus grounds between the showmen and an organized band of town ruffians came near to bringing the concern to a disastrous end. The riot happened in one of the hill towns along the river, and was due to the ugly humor of the unpaid canvasmen and the roustabouts who went searching for trouble as an outlet for their feelings. Guy ropes were cut by an attacking force of half-drunken rowdies; the canvases were slashed and wagons overturned. The oldtime yell of "Hey, Rube!" marshaled the circus forces. There was a battle royal, in which the local contingent was badly used up, more than one man being seriously injured.

David Jenison fought beside his fellow performers, who rallied to protect the dressing-tent and the terrified women. In the darkness and rain, after the night performance, the opposing forces mingled and fought like wild beasts. The young Virginian, vigorous as a colt, was a hero among his comrades. For days afterwards, every one talked of the stubborn stand he made at the rear of the dressing-tent, where he swung a stake with savage effectiveness in combat with half a dozen rioters who had cut the ropes, allowing the sidewalls to drop while many of the women were dressing.

He was fighting for Christine Braddock, who was waiting in the tent for him, instead of going to the hotel with her mother earlier in the evening. He glorified himself forever in the eyes of the terrified girl; he was never to forget the soft, tremulous words of loving anxiety she used, quite unconsciously, while she went about the task of bandaging the cuts on his face half an hour later in her mother's room, where many of their intimates had gathered for attention.

"We must find Dick Cronk and attend to his wounds," protested David, addressing the others who were there. "He came to my assistance before any one else arrived. I think he dropped from the sky."

Ruby Noakes closed her eyes suddenly to hide the telltale gleam that had leaped into them. She knew that Dick Cronk was fighting for her, and her alone.

"I saw him just now," she said after a moment. "He didn't have a scratch and he is perfectly mad with joy over the whole thing."

"He could fall out of a balloon and not even get a lump on his head, that feller could," grumbled the contortionist, who had two very black eyes and several "lumps."

Braddock, partially sobered by the serious consequences likely to arise from the riot, spent an uncomfortable day in the town. The circus manager succeeded in half-way convincing the authorities that his people had been set upon and were in no way responsible for the affray. Threats of suit against the town for damages had the desired effect: the authorities were eager to let the aggregation depart.

But in that sanguinary conflict David Jenison had won more than his spurs; these volatile, impressionable people, in disdain for their own positions in life, were saying, "Blood will tell." Down to the lowliest menial the sentiment regarding him underwent a subtle but noticeable change. He was no longer the guileless outsider: he was exalted even among those who once had scoffed.