A WARNING
Helen could hardly believe the good news. Though she had hoped, since
hearing from the law firm, that she might be entitled to some money,
Helen had always been careful not to hope too much.
"For I don't want to be badly disappointed," she told Joe.
"Well," he remarked, "I wish my chances were as good as yours."
For the answers he received from the letters he wrote concerning his
mother's relatives in England were disappointing. As far as these
letters went there was no estate in which Joe might share, though Bill
Watson insisted that the late Mrs. Strong came of a wealthy family.
"Anyhow, you've got yours, Helen," said Joe.
"Well, I haven't exactly got it yet," and she looked at Mr. Pike.
"Oh, the money is perfectly safe," the lawyer assured Helen. "I have
part of it on deposit in my bank, and the rest is safe in California."
"Just how did it happen to come to me?" Helen inquired.
"Well," answered the lawyer slowly, "it's a long and complicated story.
Your grandfather on your father's side was quite a landholder in San
Francisco. Some of his property was not worth a great deal, and other
plots were very valuable. In time he sold off most of it, but one
large tract was considered so worthless that he could not find a buyer
for it. When he died he still owned it, and it descended to your
father.
"He thought so little of it that he never tried to put it on the
market. But during the last few years the city has grown out in the
direction of this land, and recently the property was sold.
"An effort was made to find the owner, your father, but as he was dead,
and no one knew what had become of his heirs, the land was sold, and
the money deposited with the state, to be turned over to the right
owner when found. We have a branch office in San Francisco, and we
were engaged to try to find any Morton heirs. Finally we found you,
and now I am glad to say that my work in this connection is so happily
ended.
"As I told you, I have some cash ready for you. The rest of your
inheritance is in the form of bonds and mortgages, which will bring you
in an income of approximately sixty dollars a month."
"That's fifteen a week!" exclaimed Helen, who was used to calculating
that way, as are most circus and theatrical persons.
"Of course you could sell these bonds and mortgages, and get the cash
for them," said the lawyer, "but I would not advise you to. You will
have about three thousand dollars in cash, as it is, and this ought to
be enough for your immediate needs, especially as I understand you have
a good position."
"Yes, I am earning a good salary," Helen admitted, "but I have not been
able to save much. I am very glad of my little fortune."
"And I am glad for you, my dear young lady. Now, as I said, as soon as
I get back to New York I will send one of my clerks on to you with the
cash. I may be old fashioned, but I don't like to trust too much to
the mails. Besides, I want to get your signature to certain documents,
and you will have to make certain affidavits to my clerk. So I will
send him on. Let me have a note of where you will be during the next
week."
Helen gave the dates when the circus would play certain towns, and Mr.
Pike left.
"Well, it's true, little girl, isn't it?" cried Joe as they walked back
to the circus together.
"Yes, and I'm very glad. I've always wanted money, but I never thought
I'd have it--at least as much as I'm going to get. I wish you would
inherit a fortune, Joe."
"Oh, don't worry about me. I don't expect it, and what one never has
had can't be missed very much. Maybe I'll get mine--some day."
"I hope so, Joe. And now I want you to promise me something."'
"What?"
"That if ever you need money you'll come to me."
Joe hesitated a moment before answering. Then he said:
"All right, Helen, I will."
To Joe the novelty of life in a circus was beginning to wear off. To
be sure there was something new and different coming up each day, but
he had now gotten his act down to a system, and to him and the other
performers one day was much like another, except for the weather,
perhaps.
They did their acts before crowds every day--different crowds, to be
sure; but, after all, men, women and children are much alike the world
over. They want to be amused and thrilled, and the circus crowds in
one place are no different from those in another.
The Sampson Brothers' Show was not one of the largest, though it was
considered first class. Occasionally it played one of the large
cities, but, in the main, it made a circuit of places of smaller
population.
Joe kept on with his trapeze work, now and then adding new feats,
either by himself or with the Lascalla Brothers. On their part they
seemed glad to adopt Joe's suggestions. Occasionally they made some
themselves, but they were more in the way of spectacular effects--such
as waving flags while suspended in the air, or fluttering gaily colored
ribbons or strands of artificial flowers. But Joe liked to work out
new and difficult feats of strength, skill and daring, and he was
generally successful.
He had not relaxed his policy of vigilance, and he never went up on a
bar or on the rings without first testing his apparatus. For he never
forgot the strangely rotted rope. That it had been eaten by some acid,
he was sure.
He did not again get sight of that particular small trapeze, nor did he
ask Sid or Tonzo what had become of it. He did not want to know.
"It's best to let sleeping dogs lie," reasoned Joe. "But I'll be on
the lookout."
Matters had been going along well, and Joe had been given an increase
of salary.
"Well, if I can't get a fortune from some of my mother's rich and
aristocratic ancestors," Joe thought with a smile, "I can make it
myself by my trapeze work. And, after all, I guess, that's the best
way to get rich. Though I'm not sure I'll ever get rich in the circus
business."
But the calm of Joe's life--that is if, one can call it calm to act in
a circus--was rudely shaken one day when in his mail he found a badly
scrawled note. There was no signature to it, but Joe easily guessed
from whom it came. The note read:
"You want to look out for yourself. You may think you're smart, but I
know some smarter than you. This is a big world, but accidents may
happen. You want to be careful."
"Some of Sim Dobley's work," mused Joe, as he tore up the note and cast
it aside. "He's trying to get my nerve. Well, I won't let that worry
me. He won't dare do anything. Queer, though, that he should be
following the circus still. He sure does want his place back. I'm
sorry for him, but I can't help it."
Joe did not regard the warning seriously, and he said nothing about it
to Helen or any one else.
"It would only worry Helen," he reflected.
The show was over for the night. Even while the performers in the big
tent had been going through with their acts, men had taken away the
animal cages and loaded them on the flat railroad cars. Then the
animal tent was taken down and packed into wagons with the poles and
pegs.
As each performer finished, he or she went to the dressing tent and
packed his trunk for transportation. From the dressing tent the actors
went to the sleeping car, and straight to bed.
Joe's acts went very well that night. He was applauded again and again
and he was quite pleased as he ran out of the tent to make ready for
the night journey. He saw Benny Turton changing into his ordinary
clothes from his wet fish-suit, which had to be packed in a rubber bag
for transportation after the night performance, there being no time to
dry it.
"Well, how goes it, Ben?" asked Joe.
"Oh, not very well," was the spiritless answer. "I've got lots of
pain."
"Too bad," said Joe in a comforting tone. "Maybe a good night's sleep
will fix you up."
"I hope so," said the "human fish."
The circus train was rumbling along the rails. It was the middle of
the night, and they were almost due at the town where next they would
show.
Joe, as well as the others in his sleeping car, was suddenly awakened
by a crash. The train swayed from side to side and rolled along
unevenly with many a lurch and bump.
"We're off the track!" cried Joe, as he rolled from his berth. And the
memory of the scrawled warning came vividly to him.