THE LAST WARNING
“Crack!”
Larry fired the revolver. It was an automatic one, and all he had to do
was to pull the trigger. Right at the face of the lion he aimed it, as
the animal was in the air above him.
“Crack! Crack! Crack!”
Streaks of fire from the heavy cartridges shot in the direction of the
beast.
“Crack!”
It was the last shot. As he fired it Larry leaped to one side to escape
the lion’s claws. Then he cast the revolver at the beast, and fled.
But there was no need of this. Cowed by the streaks of flame, and the
noise of the reports, the brute, who had been only slightly wounded, had
no sooner landed on the sawdust, than, with tail between its legs, it
started back toward the cage it had left.
“Chase after him, some of you fellows!” shouted the head trainer. “His
nerve’s gone now. That boy has more sense and grit than the whole lot of
you!”
Now that the danger was practically over, the attendants ran back, and
toward the lion’s wagon. The brute, though still growling and roaring,
had leaped into its broken cage, where it stood crouching in one corner.
“Quick, now; wheel another cage up in front of the broken one!” the
trainer exclaimed. “That will hold him until we can fix his.”
This was soon done, and all further danger was past.
“I’m much obliged to you,” the trainer said, coming up to Larry, having
taken the hot irons back. “It was a nervy bit of work.”
“I guess if I’d stopped to think I’d never have done it,” replied Larry.
“That’s all right, my lad, and it was well done, just the same. If Nero
had gotten loose, the way he’s feeling now, and once got the taste of
human blood, there’s no telling what might have happened.”
The trainer drew a pad from his pocket, and wrote a few lines on it,
handing the paper to Larry.
“What’s this?” asked the reporter.
“It’s a pass for you and any friend you want to bring along, to come and
see the show,” the trainer replied. “It’s good for two box seats at any
performance, and as often as you like to come.”
“I don’t believe I’d better take it,” said Larry. “I didn’t stop the
lion for pay, and besides the office might not like it.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” responded the trainer. “I know what you
mean; you don’t want to ‘graft’ the way a lot of fellows do who think
they’re newspaper men. But that is all right. A real newspaper man never
grafts, but this pass isn’t graft. We always send the newspapers lots of
tickets, anyhow. It’s part of our advertising contract. This is simply
an extra one for yourself, as a sort of recognition for what you did,
though it doesn’t begin to pay for the trouble you saved us.”
“If you think it’s all right I’ll take it,” Larry answered.
“Of course it is. Come to the show, and see Nero go through his paces.”
Men by this time had come up to repair the broken cage, and with a nod
of farewell, the trainer left Larry, as there were many things to attend
to toward getting the circus into shape. Larry wandered about the big
Garden, seeing odd little incidents that he made use of in his newspaper
story.
He found the manager in charge of the freaks, and introducing himself,
Larry started to ask if there was anything new that might make a story.
“Well, yes, here is a little item you might work in,” replied the
manager, looking at Larry in what the reporter thought was a strange
sort of way. “We’ve a romance on our hands.”
“A romance?”
“Yes, you see the living skeleton has gone and fallen in love with the
fat woman.”
“Really?” asked Larry, thinking the manager might be trying to “string”
him.
“Of course. Come out and have a talk with him. But that isn’t the worst.
You see, the fat lady is smitten with the India rubber man, and the
bearded lady has gone and fallen in love with the living skeleton, so
you see, things are all mixed up. Come out into the freak room, and see
for yourself.”
Wondering whether to believe the story or not, Larry followed the
manager. He found the freaks all sitting in one corner of the Garden, on
a sort of raised platform. Sure enough the living skeleton was gazing
with a sort of lorn expression at the fat lady, who, in turn, was making
eyes at the India rubber gentleman, who was practicing stretching his
neck until the skin of it almost touched his forehead. The bearded lady,
who was combing her whiskers every now and then, glanced in the
direction of the living skeleton, who was shivering, though the day was
warm.
“You can see for yourself,” spoke the manager, in a whisper. “Don’t make
fun of ’em, if you write it up.”
“I’ll be careful,” replied Larry, thinking he had found something that
would fit in the circus story very well.
Having about all the material he needed, and seeing that the hour was
getting late, Larry decided to go back to the office. He found himself
in quite a crowd of men and boys who were hanging around the entrance to
the Garden, as he came out. He thought he felt a hand in the side pocket
of his coat, as he worked his way through the throng, but, as he knew he
had nothing of value in it, he decided, even if it was a pickpocket, he
would not stop then to try to capture him. So he pressed on. He was just
in time to catch a car for the office, and gave the incident no further
thought.
“Well, did you get a good story?” asked Mr. Emberg, as Larry entered the
city room.
“Pretty good; one of the lions got loose.”
“Don’t let them work any press-agent yarns off on you,” cautioned the
city editor, with a smile, for he was used to such stories from
circuses.
“This is true,” replied Larry. “I saw it myself. In fact, I fired a
revolver at Nero to drive him back.”
“Was it Nero who was loose?” asked Mr. Newton, overhearing what Larry
said.
“That’s what they called him. He seemed ugly enough to be Nero.”
“Then it’s no fake, if you saw Nero loose,” went on Mr. Newton. “He’s
the worst lion in captivity. That ought to be a good story.”
“Why in the world didn’t you telephone it in?” asked Mr. Emberg. “You
might have been beaten by some of the early editions of the yellows.
Hurry up, now, make that the feature of your story.”
Somewhat chagrined over his failure to have appreciated the real news
value of the lion incident, Larry began to turn out copy as fast as he
could write. Mr. Emberg read it.
“You’re doing all right!” he called to Larry. “It is as good a circus
story as we’ve had in a long time. Keep it up.”
Larry told of everything in connection with the escape of Nero, and then
began to describe the different scenes, including the way the Garden was
being made ready for the crowds. By this time the first edition had gone
to press.
“Take your time, now,” said the city editor. “We’ll use the rest in the
next edition.”
“I’ve got a good story about the freaks,” said Larry, and he began to
tell of the mixed-up romance.
He was interrupted by a burst of laughter, in which several reporters
and Mr. Emberg joined.
“It’s true! I saw ’em myself,” exclaimed Larry.
“Of course you did,” admitted Mr. Emberg. “It was gotten up for your
benefit. The manager sized you up for a new reporter, and thought the
old story might go with you, though he must have known that no copy
reader would have passed it.”
“Isn’t it true?” asked Larry, his faith in human nature somewhat shaken.
“It’s one of the oldest press-agent’s yarns that ever did duty in a
circus,” said Mr. Newton. “If there were any freaks in the Ark, and they
had a press agent, he told that story to the first reporter who
interviewed him when Captain Noah’s boat landed on Mount Ararat.”
So Larry learned two things that day. One was that things old reporters
think are fakes sometimes turn out to be true, and the other was that
you can never believe a manager of the freak department of a circus.
Both lessons were useful ones.
When he went out to lunch, Larry put his hand into the side pocket of
his coat. He felt an envelope there, and thinking it was a letter which
his mother might have given him to mail, and which he had forgotten, he
pulled it out. He at once saw that it was no ordinary letter, for the
envelope bore a large blue cross upon it.
“Where did that come from,” thought Larry. He opened it. Inside was a
small piece of paper, on which was printed:
_THREE DAYS MORE. BLUE HAND._
“That was what the tugging at my coat in the crowd at the Garden meant,”
reasoned Larry. “Some one of the gang must have been close to me. They
must be following me around, and keeping track of me wherever I go.”
At first this thought alarmed him. It was unpleasant to feel that
someone was always looking at you, knowing your every movement so well
that they could slip up, and drop notes into your pocket. Larry felt his
courage leaving him. He half determined to agree to the gang’s wishes.
Then, as he thought of what Mr. Newton had said, he grew braver, and
decided to fight to the end.
That night, going home, Larry was in quite a crowd on the elevated
train. He tried to keep watch, and see if anyone dropped anything into
his pockets, but the crowd was so dense that it would have been an easy
matter for a person to approach him closely, and escape detection.
So Larry was not greatly surprised, when, on reaching the street, he
found another missive, in the same language.
The same thing happened on two successive nights. Try as he did he could
discover no one, however. He began to be quite nervous. A person who
could steal up on him in a crowd, unknown to him, and drop letters into
his pocket, was clearly a dangerous customer, Larry reasoned.
On Saturday night, as he left the train, he felt a suspicious tug at his
coat pocket. He turned quickly, and caught a glimpse of a youth hurrying
through the crowd.
“If that wasn’t Peter Manton I’ll eat my hat,” thought Larry.
He drew out the letter, which, in accordance with his expectations, he
found. It read:
_THIS IS THE LAST WARNING._