Joe Strong and his wings of steel or, A young acrobat in the clouds
The room was lined with steel, for Mr. Clark was of such a mechanical
turn of mind that he would have escaped from an ordinary apartment.
At times he became so violent that it was dangerous to go into the
same room with him, so a hidden pipe was arranged in order that a
quieting and harmless gas might be introduced into his vault. This
would cause him to sleep, and he would then be quiet and apparently
rational for weeks at a time, seeming as sane as any one.
But finally all his relatives died, and the authorities, after one
of the unfortunate man’s outbreaks, sent him to an asylum. Treatment
there seemed to effect a cure, and he was released, but only to go
back again later. This occurred several times, but on the occasion of
the man’s attack on Joe, the lunatic had managed to make his escape
from the institution.
Just how Mr. Clark got the idea that Joe had stolen his invention
was, of course, only to be guessed at. It was one of the queer kinks
in his brain. But he seemed to want to get rid of Joe, and knowing of
the hidden pipe leading to the vault had put some ether in it instead
of the harmless gas that had been used on himself.
Then he had evidently run away, leaving Joe to his fate; and only for
Helen’s wit, and the quick work of Bill and Benny, there might have
been a different ending to the story.
During his sane, and perhaps during some of his insane, spells Mr.
Clark would potter and tinker away at his “inventions” in the queer
vault he made his workshop, and whither he had lured Joe. “Well,”
said the chief of police, to whom complaint was made about the
lunatic, “we’ll put him away as soon as we can. And the old house is
soon to be torn down, so there’ll be no more danger there.”
“Then he told the truth about that,” remarked Joe.
“Oh, yes. He is cunning like all insane persons, and speaks the truth
at times. It’s a sad case, but I’m glad you got out all right.”
Jim Tracy, when told of what had happened, wanted Joe not to do his
turns that night. But our hero, after a cold shower bath and a good
meal, said he felt as well as ever, and would not disappoint the
crowds. Accordingly, he performed his motor-cycle and flying feats,
but he only did part of the tank act, not staying under for any great
length of time, as he did not want to tax his lungs, which showed
some slight effects from the ether.
The show moved on, but later Joe and his friends learned that the
unfortunate Mr. Clark had been sent to an institution, whence there
was little hope of his coming out.
“I wish I knew his secret of a powerful and light storage battery,”
said the young circus performer. “I’ll need it if I want to make a
bigger _Bat_.”
“Are you going to keep on with the circus?” asked Helen.
“Yes, I think I shall. I’ve a lot of plans in my head for a bigger
and better show if I can ever raise the money. I just wish my English
inheritance would ‘make good.’ I’d use that money in the circus, and
I’d build a bigger flying machine. Would you double up with me in
that act, Helen?”
“I don’t know,” she answered hesitatingly. “Now that you are one of
the owners, and when you have a bigger show, you may have no use for
a performer like me.”
“The day will never come when I won’t want you, Helen,” said Joe in a
low voice. “But I guess it will be a long while before I get enough
money to do what I want.”
It was about a week after this that something came to Joe’s attention
which caused him to do some hard thinking. He had subscribed to a
London paper some time before because of his interest in English
affairs. Occasionally the copies went astray in the mail on account
of Joe’s travels, but this number came safely with some letters. And
in reading the journal Joe saw a notice to the effect that charges of
professional misconduct were to be made against a lawyer named Kent
Bolling.
“Why, that’s my lawyer!” exclaimed Joe. “I wonder if he is dealing
straight with me. I’ve got to look into this thing. It seems
suspicious to me. I’ve got to do something!”
CHAPTER XXI
A QUEER OFFER
Joe was not in a position to go to England to try to straighten out
his affairs, much as he wished to do so. His new position, as one of
the partners in the circus, and the attraction his acts were to it,
made it impossible for him to leave.
“But if I don’t get things straightened out before, I’ll take a run
over when we go into winter quarters,” decided the lad. “I’ll need a
little vacation, anyhow, and a trip to England will do me good. I may
pick up some new ideas about circuses.”
“So you might,” agreed Helen, in whom Joe confided, also showing her
the article in the paper.
“But for the present I’ll have to learn what I can by writing,” the
youth went on.
“I’ll help you,” offered Helen.
Together the young people outlined a sort of letter-writing campaign.
Joe sent notes to the persons mentioned in the London paper as
carrying on the investigation into the conduct of Mr. Bolling. He
also wrote to the solicitor who had first acted in the matter of the
English estate, begging him to use again his influence to straighten
the matters out and take Joe’s affairs from the hands of Mr. Kent
Bolling.
“And now we can only wait,” the youth said, when the last of the
epistles had been mailed.
Meanwhile matters were going fairly well with the circus. Several
times the big tent was crowded to its capacity, and some of the crowd
had to be turned away. At other times the attendance would be rather
less. And being now a partner, whose money varied with the success of
the show, Joe took more interest in the attendance than formerly.
Of course, he had always been glad to see a crowded tent, as any
performer is. It is much easier to act and do one’s best before a big
audience than in front of a slim and unsympathetic one. All actors
realize this.
The circus reached the city of Ralston and played to good business
there for two days and two nights. The next stopping place was
Mortville, which was the center of a thriving community, and where
they expected also to do well.
“I think, instead of going by train, I’ll make a night hike of it by
highway,” said Mr. Sampson, when considering the matter of moving the
show to Mortville. “The performers can ride, of course, and we’ll
send our cars by rail, but it’s a roundabout route and we’ll get in
so late it will mean cutting out the parade.
“That’s too good an advertising feature to omit, and we won’t have to
do it if we drive the animal and other wagons, and move our horses
across country by road.”
“How’s that?” asked Jim Tracy.
“Why, there’s been a new state road opened between Ralston and
Mortville, which makes it about fifteen miles shorter than it used to
be, and much less than the railroad makes it. To go by rail we have
to go to Benton Junction and then double back. If we go by the state
road we can go direct. This will bring the wagons to the lot early
in the morning, and we can get the preliminary work done in time to
prepare for the parade. The performers can have breakfast on the
train, and they’ll be in on time to take part in the procession. It’s
the early morning work--erecting the tent and all that--which takes
time. So we’ll make a night hike.”
This had been done occasionally before on short trips, but not since
Joe had been with the show. And when he heard what was going to be
done he said:
“I think I’ll ride on one of the wagons.”
“What for?” asked Jim Tracy.
“I want the experience,” was the answer. “Now that I’m one of the
partners, I want to learn all I can about the details of circus
management.”
“That’s a fine idea,” said Mr. Sampson. “Ride by all means. It’s
going to be a nice moonlight night, and I’d take the ride myself
only I want to look after the train details.”
So it came about that when the tents were struck that night, and the
canvas, poles, stakes and ropes piled in the big wagons, the vehicles
started off on the road, each one pulled by eight sturdy horses.
Joe took his place on the seat of one of the canvas wagons alongside
of the driver, who handled the many reins with as much ease as the
average man does a single pair.
Joe was familiar with all the life of a circus except this
night-moving by road, and he was keenly interested in it. Along the
new highway, illumined by the mellow light of the moon, the circus
cavalcade proceeded. Joe’s driver was Terry Bland, an old hand at the
business, and he told the lad many stories as they drove along.
“You can crawl back on the canvas and go to sleep when you like,” he
said to Joe.
“Oh, I don’t want to,” was the answer.
“You’ll need it, if you expect to do all your acts to-morrow,” Terry
went on. “I’ll have a chance to sleep after we get in and unloaded,
as I always do. But you won’t. Better get a nap.”
“I will maybe, a little later,” Joe agreed. At present he was too
interested to leave his high perch on the seat of the big wagon.
But after an hour or so it grew rather monotonous, listening to the
rumble of the heavy wheels and the tramping of the hoofs of many
horses, and Joe decided to take the driver’s advice. He made as
comfortable a bed as possible on the canvas, covering himself with
part of it, and soon was sound asleep.
How long he slept he did not know, but when he awoke, with something
of a start, he found that the wagon was not moving.
“Hello!” he cried, starting up. “Are we in?”
“Not yet,” was the answer. The voice did not come from the driver’s
seat. Joe looked forward, but did not see Terry.
“What’s wrong?” he asked in some alarm, as he crawled out. He could
see nothing of the other circus wagons.
“Nothing much,” was the reply, and the voice came from down on the
ground, at the side of the vehicle. “One of the wheel-nuts was
rattling, and I got off to look at it. Found it was quite loose, so
I’m tightening it. Took me longer than I expected and the rest of the
procession has gone on. We’ll soon be up with ’em, though.”
A little later, having fixed the wheel to his satisfaction, the
driver mounted to his seat and they set off again. It was slightly
down grade, and as Terry wanted to catch up to the wagons that had
gone on ahead he called sharply to his steeds. They responded with a
brisk canter which took them along at good speed.
“It’s rather sharp out,” commented the driver. “Begins to feel like
fall, especially in the early morning,” and he slung one arm against
his chest, beating it to start the blood circulating more rapidly.
“Yes,” agreed Joe. “But I like it. When I was a kid in the country I
used to----”
But he did not finish the sentence, for, just then, the wagon jolted
over a stone and lurched so much to one side that the driver was
pitched off and fell to the ground, losing his grip on the many reins.
Joe had a momentary view of Terry, falling clear of the ponderous
wheels to the grass beside the road, and then he realized the
necessity for prompt action, as the horses, frightened perhaps by the
jolt of the vehicle, started to run away.
“Here’s trouble!” flashed through the lad’s mind. “A big heavy wagon,
and eight horses running away down hill! I wonder if I can work the
brakes.”
Even as he thus thought, the youth acted. The reins were fastened to
a hook at the side of the seat and did not fall when Terry dropped
them. Joe grasped them in both hands and began to pull in on the
team. He dared not look back to see what had become of the driver,
but he hoped a severe shaking up would be the only result of the
man’s fall.
Joe knew something about horses, though he had never driven a circus
team.
Calling soothingly to the frightened and galloping animals, Joe began
pulling them in. At the same time his feet found the brake bar,