BILL WATSON'S IDEA
Helen Morton gave Joe a glance and a smile. Then she looked at the
open letter in her hand.
"That's so," she said brightly. "I never thought of that. I wonder if
you could advise me?"
"Why, I'm one of the best advisers you ever saw," returned Joe,
laughingly.
"I know you're good on the trapeze," Helen admitted, "but have you had
any business experience?"
"Well, I was in business for myself after I ran away from home and
joined the professor," answered Joe. "That is, I had to attend to some
of his business. What is it all about?"
"That's just what I want to know," answered the young circus rider.
"It's a puzzle to me."
She again referred to the letter, then with a sort of hopeless gesture
held it out to Joe. He took it and cried:
"Why, what's this? It's all torn up," and he exhibited a handful of
scraps of paper.
"Oh--Joe!" Helen gasped. "How did that happen?"
"Just a mistake," he replied. With a quick motion of his hand he held
out the letter whole and untorn.
"Oh--oh!" she stammered. Then, laughing, added: "Is that one of your
sleight-of-hand tricks?"
"Yes," Joe nodded. When Helen handed him the letter he happened to be
holding the scraps of a circular letter he had just received and torn
up. It occurred to him, just for a joke, to make Helen believe her
letter had suddenly gone to pieces. It was one of Joe's simplest
tricks, and he often did them nowadays in order to keep in practice.
"You certainly gave me a start!" Helen exclaimed. "I had hardly read
the letter myself. It's quite puzzling."
"Do you want me to read it--and advise you?" asked Joe.
"If you will--and can--yes."
Joe hastily glanced over the paper. He saw in a moment that it was
from a New York firm of lawyers. The body of the letter read:
"We are writing to you to learn if, by any chance, you are the daughter
of Thomas and Ruth Morton who some years ago lived in San Francisco.
In case you are, and if your grandfather on your father's side was a
Seth Morton, we would be glad to have you notify us of these facts,
sending copies of any papers you may have to prove your identity.
"For some years we have been searching for a Helen Morton with the
above named relatives, but, so far, have not located her.
"We discovered a number of Helen Mortons, but they were not the right
ones. Recently we saw your name in a theatrical magazine, and take
this opportunity to inquire of you, sending this letter in care of the
circus with which we understand you are connected. Kindly reply as
soon as possible. If you are the right person there is a sum of money
due you, and we wish, if that is the case, to pay it and close an
estate."
Joe read the letter over twice without speaking.
"Well," remarked Helen, after a pause, "I thought you were going to
advise me."
"So I am," Joe said. "I want to get this through my head first. But
let me ask you: Is this a joke, or are you the Helen Morton referred
to?"
"I don't know whether it's a joke or not, Joe. First I thought it was.
But my father's name was Thomas, and my grandfather was a Seth Morton,
and he lived in San Francisco. Of course that was when I was a little
girl, and I don't remember much about it. We lived in the West before
papa and mamma died, and it was there I learned to ride a horse.
"When I was left alone except for an elderly aunt, I did not know what
to do. My aunt took good care of me, however, but when she died there
was no one else, and she left no money. I tried to get work, but the
stores and factories wanted experienced girls, and the only thing I had
any experience with was a horse.
"I got desperate, and decided to see if I couldn't make a living by
what little talent I had. So one day, when a circus was showing in our
town, I took my horse, Rosebud, rode out and did some stunts in the
lots. The manager saw me and hired me. Oh, how happy I was!
"That wasn't with this show. I only joined here about two years ago.
Of course my friends--what few I had--thought it was dreadful for me to
become a circus rider, but I've found that there are just as good men
and women in circuses as anywhere else in this world," and her cheeks
grew red, probably at the memory of something that had been said
against circus folk.
"I know," said Joe, quietly. "My mother was a circus rider."
"So you have told me. But now about this letter, Joe. I wish Bill
Watson were here--he might know what to do about it."
"Well, I can't say that I do, in spite of my boast," Joe answered. "It
may be a joke, and, again, it may be the real thing. You may be an
heiress, Miss Morton," and Joe bowed teasingly.
"I thought you were going to call me Helen--if I called you Joe," she
said.
"So I am. That was only in fun," for soon after their acquaintance
began these two young persons had fallen into the habit of dropping the
formal Miss and Mister.
"Well, what would you do, Joe?" Helen asked.
"I think I'd answer this letter seriously," replied the young
performer. "If it is a joke you can't lose more than a two cent stamp,
and, on the other hand, if it's serious they'll want to hear from you.
You may be the very person they want. This letter head doesn't look
much like a joke."
The paper on which the letter was written was of excellent quality, and
Joe could tell by passing his fingers over the names, addresses and
other matter that it was engraved--not printed.
"If it's a joke they went to a lot of work to get it up," he continued.
"Have you any papers, to prove your identity?"
"Yes, I have some birth and marriage certificates, and an old bible
that was Grandfather Seth's. I wouldn't want to send them off to New
York though."
"It won't be necessary--at least not at first. I'll help you make
copies of them, and if these lawyers want to see the real things let
them send a man on. That's my advice."
"And very good advice it is too, Joe," Helen said. "I don't believe
Bill Watson could give any better. He's a real nice elderly man, and
he's been almost a father to me. I often go to him when I have my
little troubles. I wish he were here now. But you are very good to
me, Joe. I'm going to take your advice."
"I'll help you make the copies," Joe offered. "Did you ever have any
idea that your grandfather left valuable property?"
"No, and I don't believe papa or mamma did, either. We were not
exactly poor, but we weren't rich. Oh, wouldn't it be nice if I were
to get some money?"
"You wouldn't stay with the circus then, would you?"
"Oh, I don't know," she answered musingly. "I think I like it here."
"I know I do," Joe said. "But if you don't want to take my advice you
can wait until Mr. Watson comes back. You say he's expected?"
"Yes. Mr. Tracy said he'd join us at Blairstown in a few days. But,
anyhow, I'm going to do as you said, Joe. And if I get a million
dollars maybe I'll buy a circus of my own," and she laughed at the
whimsical idea.
Taking some spare time, she and Joe made copies of certain certificates
Helen had in her trunk, and they also copied the record from the old
Bible. Joe got the press agent of the show to typewrite a letter to go
with the copies, and they were sent to the New York lawyers.
"Now we'll wait and see what comes of it," Helen said. "But I'm not
going to lose any sleep over it. I never inherited a fortune, and I
don't expect to."
A few days later, when the show reached Blairstown, Bill Watson, a
veteran clown, joined the troupe of fun-makers. He was made royally
welcome, for his presence had been missed.
"Bill, I want to introduce to you a new friend of mine," said Helen,
when she had the opportunity. "He's one of our newest and best
performers, aside from you and me," she joked.
"What's the name?" asked jovial Bill, holding out his hand.
"Joe Strong."
"Been in the business long?"
"Not very. I was with Professor Rosello before I came here."
"Never heard of him," and Bill shook his head.
"He was a conjurer," explained Joe. "My father was, too. He was
Professor Morretti, and my mother----"
"Was Madame Hortense. She was Janet Willoughby before her marriage,"
broke in Bill Watson, speaking calmly.
"What!" cried Joe. "Did you know her--them?"
"I knew both of them," said Bill. "I didn't connect your name with
them at first, Strong not being uncommon. But when you mentioned your
father, the professor, why, it came to me in a flash. So you're Madame
Hortense's son, eh?"
"Did you know my mother well?" asked Joe.
"Know her?" cried the veteran clown. "I should say I did! Why, she
and I were great friends, and so were your father and I, but I did not
see so much of him, as he was in a different line. But your mother,
Joe! Ah, the profession lost a fine performer when she died. I never
thought I'd meet her son, and in a circus at that.
"But I'm glad you're with us, and I want to say that if you have Helen,
here, on your side, you've got one of the finest little girls in all
the world."
"I found that out as soon as I joined," said Joe.
"Trust you young chaps for not losing any chances like that," chuckled
the clown. "Well, I'm glad you two are friends. They tell me you're
quite an addition to the Lascalla troupe."
"I'm glad I've been able to do so well," Joe said.
"And how have you been, Helen?" the old clown wanted to know.
"First rate. And, oh, Bill. We have _such_ a mystery for you--Joe and
I!"
"A mystery, Helen?"
"Yes; I'm going to be an heiress. Wait until I show you the letter,"
which she did, to the no small astonishment of Bill Watson.
"Well, well," he said over and over again, when Helen and Joe told of
the answer they had sent the New York lawyers. "Suppose you do get
some money, Helen?"
"It's too good to suppose. I can't imagine any one leaving me money."
"I wish I knew a fairy godmother who would leave me some," murmured
Joe. "But that wouldn't happen in a blue moon."
Bill Watson turned, and looked rather curiously at the young circus
performer.
"Well, now, do you know, Joe Strong," he said, "I have an idea."
"An idea!" cried Helen gaily. "How nice, Bill. Tell us about it!"
"Now just a moment, young lady. Don't get too excited with an old man
just off a sick bed. But Joe's speaking that way--I call you Joe, as I
knew your folks so well--Joe's speaking that way gave me an idea. I
wouldn't be so terribly surprised, my boy, if you did have money left
you some day."
"How?" asked Joe in surprise.
"Why, your mother, whom, as I said, I knew very well, came of a very
rich and aristocratic family in England. She was disowned by them when
she married your father--as if public performers weren't as good as
aristocrats, any day! But never mind about that. Your mother
certainly was rich when she was a girl, Joe, and it may be she is
entitled to money from the English estates now, or, rather, you would
be, since she is dead. That's my idea."