The Crimson Flash Part 2

Pant had left the circus train at Twenty-second Street. He had drawn his cap down to his dark goggles, and hurrying over to State Street, boarded a north-bound surface car.

A half hour later he climbed the last of six flights of stairs, and turning a key in a dusty door, let himself into a room that overlooked the river at Wells Street.

This room had been Johnny Thompson's retreat in those stirring days told of in "Triple Spies." Johnny had turned the key over to Pant before he left Russia. Pant had renewed the lease, and had, from time to time, as his strangely mysterious travels led through Chicago, climbed the stairs to sit by the window and reflect, or to throw himself upon the bed and give himself over to many hours of sleep.

At present he was not in need of sleep. Swinging the blinds back without the slightest sound, he drew a chair to the window and, dropping his chin in his cupped hands, fell into deep reflection. His inscrutable, mask-like face seemed a blank. Only twice during two hours did the muscles relax. Each time it was into a cat-like smile. Just before these moments of amus.e.m.e.nt there had appeared upon the river, far below, a broad patch of crimson light.

Morning before the circus performance is like the wash of a receding tide. Dull gray fog still lingers in the air. In front of the ropes that exclude visitors a few curiosity seekers wander up and down, but it is behind these lines, on behind the kitchen, mess, and horse tents that the real denizens of the fog are to be found. Here a host of attaches of the circus, and those not definitely attached, wander about like beasts in their cages, or engage in occupations of doubtful character. Here are to be found in great numbers the colored razor-backs, mingled with the white men of that profession. Stake drivers, rope pullers, venders of peanuts and pop, mingle with the motley crowd of sharp-witted gentry who, like vultures following a victorious army, live in the wake of a prosperous circus. Later, all these would sleep, but for the moment, like owls and bats, they cling to the last bit of morning fog.

It was down this much trodden "gold coast" at the back door of the circus that Johnny Thompson found himself walking. He had taken his coffee and fried eggs at a restaurant that backed "Boul Mich." He was now in search of Pant, also hoping for things to turn up, which, presently, they did.

So Johnny sauntered slowly along the broad walk bordering the Lake Front park.

Here and there he paused to study the faces of men who sat munching their breakfast. Faces always interested him, and besides, he knew full well that some of the sharpest as well as the lowest criminals follow a circus.

His course was soon arrested by the hoa.r.s.e half whisper of a man to the right of him. About this man--a white man--was gathered a knot of other men.

"Five, if you pick the black card. Try your luck! Try it, brother. Five dollars, if you pick the lucky card." These were the words the man whispered.

Johnny edged his way to the center of the group. In shady places at the back of great country picnics, or in secluded sheds at county fairs, he had seen this game played many a time, but to find it in a Chicago park seemed unbelievable. Yet, here it was. A broad shouldered man, with an irregular mouth and a ragged ear, evidently badly mauled in some fight, stood with a newspaper held flat before him. On the paper, face down, were three ordinary playing cards. The slim, tapering fingers of the man played over the cards, as a pianist's fingers play over the keys. Now he gathered them all up to toss them one by one, face up, on the paper.

"See, gents; two reds and a black! Watch it! There it is! There it is!

Now, there! Five dollars, if you pick the lucky card! Five to me if you lose."

He shot an inquiring glance toward Johnny. Johnny remained silent.

A short, stout man thrust a five dollar bill into the conman's hand. His trembling fingers turned a card. It was red. With an oath he struggled out of the ring.

"Can't hit it always, brother," a smirky smile overspread the conman's face.

"Well, now, I'll make it easy. There it is! Leave it there. Who will try?

Who will try?"

A young man wearing a green tie pa.s.sed over a ten dollar bill.

"Make it all or nothing. All or nothing," chuckled the operator.

The youth grinned. His confident finger picked the card. It was black.

"You win, brother, you win. I told you. Now, who'll win next?"

Again he shot a glance at Johnny. Again Johnny was silent.

Twice more the game was played. Each time the conman lost.

"Everybody wins this morning." The conman's fingers played with the cards, and in playing bent the corner of the black card ever so slightly upward. Johnny's keen eyes saw it. When the card was turned, he had picked it right. Five times in imaginary plays the conman tossed the cards down and gathered them up. Each time Johnny's eye, following the bent card, told him he was right. Six times he picked the black card correctly. Was the conman drunk? He thought not. His keen eyes studied the circle of faces. Then he laughed.

"Where do you think it is?" The conman bantered.

Johnny pointed a finger at the bent card.

"Why don't you bet?"

Johnny laughed again.

"I bate." A Swede standing near Johnny thrust out a five dollar bill.

He won.

"See?" jeered the conman. "You're no sport. You're a coward." He leered at Johnny.

Johnny's cheek turned a shade redder, but he only smiled.

Again the Swede bet and won.

Again the conman had the word "coward" on his lips. He did not say it.

Johnny was speaking. There was a cold smile on his lips.

"I can tell you one thing, stranger," Johnny squared his shoulders, "I'm not in the habit of allowing men to call me a coward. I'll tell you why I don't play your rotten game, then I'll tell you something else. That man, and that one, and that one and this Swede are your cappers. You had twenty-five dollars between you when I came. You got five from that stranger who left. When one of your cappers won, he pa.s.sed the money from hand to hand until it came back to you. If they lost it's the same. A stranger has about as much chance with a bunch like you as a day-old chick has in the middle of the Atlantic. But say, stranger, you called me a coward. I'll tell you what I'll do. You've got me topped by seventy-five pounds, and you think you know how to handle your dukes.

I'll box you three rounds, and if you touch my face in any round, I'll give you a five-case note, the last one I have. Not bet, see! Just give!

You can't lose; you may win. What say?"

The conman's lips parted, but no sound came. The eyes of his pals and cappers were upon him.

"You wouldn't let the little runt bluff y'," suggested the young capper of the green tie.

"Oh--all, all right, brother." The conman's voice stuck in his throat.

"All right. Somebody fetch the gloves."

A boxing match, or even a free-for-all, is not so uncommon on the back lines of a circus, but it never fails to draw a crowd. It was upon this inevitable crowd that Johnny counted for his backing, should the three rounds turn into a rough and tumble, with no mercy and no quarter.

Once his gloves were on, he explained to the rapidly growing circle the terms of the match.

"There's no referee, so all of you are it," he smiled.

"Right-O. We're wid ye," a genial Irishman shouted.

"Go to it, kid," a st.u.r.dy stake driver echoed.

"Are you ready?"

Johnny moved his gloves to a position not ten inches from his body. With fists well extended, the conman leaped across the ring. The blow he aimed at Johnny's head would have felled an ox, had it landed. It did not land.

Johnny had sprung to one side. The next instant he tapped the conman on his ragged ear.