The Crimson Flash Part 21

"That's another fellow," he told himself, "that I'd never suspect of being a crook, but what's that about people who 'smile and smile and are a villain still'? A fellow has to watch out."

He was just thinking of this when a shrill voice piped:

"h.e.l.lo, Johnny! Want to see my house?"

It was Tom Stick, the midget clown. He was offering Johnny a rare privilege; inviting him to view the inside of his house on wheels. Pant had told Johnny that such a boon had been granted to no one. Yet, because it was so rare, and because of Pant's warning, "They'll stab you in the back," he was tempted for a second to decline.

Courage and curiosity overcame his fears, and smiling he said:

"Sure! Lead the way."

The clown's house was little more than a box on wheels, but once Johnny had crowded himself through the narrow door and seated himself, much humped up, on a miniature chair, he was surprised at the completeness of its furnishings. He could easily imagine himself in a hunter's lodge in the depths of the forest. An open fireplace, with a real wood fire burning, a roughly hewn table, benches beside the fireplace, a cl.u.s.ter of fox skins hanging in the corner, a bear skin on the floor, rifles hanging on one wall; all these, with the unmistakable odor of fresh pine wood, went far toward taking him back to the forests.

"You see," squeaked Tom Stick, rubbing his hands in delight at Johnny's astonishment, "I was born and brought up in the Maine woods. I loved the wild out-of-doors, and when the circus people offered me big money to join them, I told them no. But my mother needed the money, so, at last, I told them if they'd build me this house, and never disturb me in it, I'd come. You see they did. I've never had any of the other circus people in here. Didn't think they'd understand. They've always lived in a tent.

They'd laugh at a fellow who wanted a home with four board walls, a ceiling, and a smell of the pine woods in it. But I knew you wouldn't.

You've had a home, and you know the woods. Tell that by the color in your cheeks, and the way you swing your arms when you walk."

For a moment the dwarf was silent, then suddenly he shot a question at his visitor.

"Johnny, what do you live for?"

"Why, why, I don't know," Johnny stammered. "Just live because it's fun to live, I suppose."

The midget wrinkled his small brow in thought.

"Not so bad," he murmured. "Not so bad. But Johnny; did you ever wonder what a little fellow like me lives for?"

"No, I didn't," Johnny admitted.

"Well, there's a lot of things we can't do that big folks can; but there's one thing, Johnny, one thing," Tom's tone died to a whisper; "a short man can have a tall bank account. He can, can't he, Johnny?" The little fellow twisted his face into a knowing smile.

"I guess he can," grinned Johnny, "and it's a fine thing that he can."

Johnny had stepped over and was examining an ancient squirrel rifle, which Tom explained had belonged to his grandfather, when he noticed the way the walls of the house were fastened. The walls were made of fresh pine slabs. They were wired tight to something behind them. "Iron bars,"

was his mental comment. "When they made this they just built it inside a wild animal cage. I wonder what would happen if a fellow were to get locked in here?"

He was speculating on this, when he heard a voice outside calling.

"Johnny, Johnny Thompson!" It was Gwen.

He answered the call and, turning to his little host, said: "Guess I better go. Some work, I suppose. Great little house, you've got. Much obliged for letting me see it."

He backed out of the door and hurried away to join Gwen, but even as he did so, he thought of the midget clown's reference to a tall bank account, and of his house built inside a cage. What if this little fellow was a miser? What if his greed for gold had led him into counterfeiting?

What if he were Black McCree? What safer place could be found for hiding a counterfeiter's den than a house built inside a cage on wheels?

All these speculations were cut short by the appearance of the smiling face of his lady boxing partner, Gwen.

"It's the clown stunt," she exclaimed excitedly. "The big chief fell for it right away. He hurried a messenger off to Chicago for the balloons.

They're already here, and they've tried them out with a dummy and they worked beautifully. They want you to try it right away."

"This dummy," smiled Johnny, "he didn't fall and break his neck, did he?"

"No, of course not, Silly!"

"Well, here's hoping I don't, but it's a powerful long distance from the top of the center tent pole down to the sawdust."

CHAPTER XV BURSTING BALLOONS

The big top had never been more crowded than it was the night of Johnny's first performance as a clown. And never, in the memory of the oldest circus man, had there been a jollier throng. Never had there been an act more thoroughly appreciated than that of Gwen, the Queen, and Johnny, the fat clown.

Johnny had been dressed in inflated rubber clothing until he appeared as fat as a butcher. When, by the aid of the balloons, he rose to the tight wire, when he tripped lightly along it, and returned cakewalking, the spectators howled their approval. But when in apparent consternation, he lost his step and instead of plunging downward, leaped upward with the sudden lift of the balloons, they rose to their feet and roared their delight.

Silently, calmly, he rose toward the tent top. There was nothing calm about the feelings that surged in Johnny's breast, however. He had never been in aviation, and never would be. Going up in the air made him feel sick. Had it not been for Gwen, he would have refused to attempt this stunt.

"Oh, well!" he sighed, "here's the top; now I can grab the rope and come down. Rope's more certain than these balloons."

Hardly had the thought pa.s.sed through his brain than there came a loud report. So close it was that it hurt his ear drums. It was followed almost instantly by a second explosion.

"The balloons," Johnny groaned. "They're bursting!"

For a second his head whirled. To drop from those dizzy heights meant death. Then his mind cleared. The rope was to his right. Already he was beginning to shoot downward. Could he reach it? With one wild leap in mid-air, he thrust out a hand. He grasped the rope with his left, then lost his hold. With his right, he secured a firmer grip. At that same instant the last balloon burst. For one sickening moment, he clung there, swinging backward and forward, madly groping for the rope with his free hand. At last, he found it, and, with a sigh of relief, began sliding down the rope.

The crowd was standing up cheering. The band was playing. Even the performers thought it part of the act.

For a minute or two after he had reached the ground, Johnny rested on a mat. As he rose to go he noticed something lying in the sawdust.

Carelessly he picked it up, examined it, then gave a low whistle. It was an arrow-like affair. The shaft was of steel wire, the head of wood. The head had been discolored, part yellow and part dark brown.

"Sulphur!" he murmured. "Dipped in burning sulphur, then shot at my balloons! No wonder they exploded. Now, who played that dirty trick?"

He examined the thing carefully. "Couldn't have been shot from a bow, no groove for the bow string. Now I wonder. An air rifle, that's what it was."

Quickly there flashed before his mind a picture of a midget clown chasing a huge elephant around the ring. The clown was dressed in equatorial hunting garb and carried an air rifle.

"Tom Stick!" Johnny murmured. "Tom Stick and his air rifle! I wouldn't have thought he'd do it."

Slowly he walked back through the alleyway that led to the dressing room.

He had discarded his clown suit and had walked out into the open air, when a shrill young voice called his name:

"Johnny, Johnny Thompson."

Whirling about, he found himself facing the millionaire twins. They were riding astride their ponies, and were dressed as if ready for their turn in the ring.

"Wha--where'd you come from, and who let you in?" he gasped.