INVOKING THE LAW
While Joe Strong was thus making his first public appearance as a
wizard, or, rather, as a magician’s assistant, quite different scenes
were being enacted in his home town and at his former residence.
Deacon Blackford had discovered the fire, found out that he had been
robbed, and noted the disappearance of Joe. With these facts confronting
himself and his wife, the deacon at once began to act.
“What you going to do?” asked Mrs. Blackford, as he dressed for the
street.
“I’m going out,” he answered grimly.
“What! At this time of night?”
“Can’t help it,” was the reply. “I’m going to get the law after him.”
“You mean Joe?”
“I don’t mean anybody else! He robbed me and you, and he’s got to take
the consequences! I’m going to look for the constables. Joe can’t have
gone very far. I saw him jumping out of the window, but at the time I
didn’t know who it was. He robbed me, and he set fire to the place.”
“But he didn’t mean to do _that_,” said Mrs. Blackford defensively.
“According to your tell, he accidentally kicked the lamp with his foot.”
“Accident or no accident, he did it, and I’m going to have the law on
him! I’ll get the constables. He’s took a lot of money, and papers worth
more. He may have been in league with those rascals, Denton and
Harrison,” murmured the deacon. “But, no. I don’t hardly believe that.
He didn’t know them. He just did this out of natural badness. Couldn’t
expect much else from the son of a circus performer and a worker of the
black art.”
He spoke harshly and angrily.
“Maybe there’s _some_ good circus women, and men too, for that matter,
Deacon,” said his wife softly.
“No, not one—they’re all dishonest!” Mr. Blackford declared. “But I’ll
get the law after Joe.”
He made ready for the street, though it was a most unusual hour for
Deacon Blackford to be out. But the occasion was unusual.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he told his wife.
Out into the night went the deacon, his brain rather in a whirl over the
recent events. He walked down the silent streets, his footsteps echoing
loudly. He headed for the center of the town where the police station
was located, for the two constables reported at this place once or twice
during the night.
Hen Sylvester and Tim Donovan had been having adventures of their own in
chasing Joe. But they had missed him, and when they saw him fling
himself, rather rashly, into the open freight car, which quickly bore
him away from them, they turned back much chagrined.
“He got away!” exclaimed Hen.
“That’s what he did,” agreed his companion officer. “I wonder who he
was? I wish we could have caught him. He was a burglar.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Hen. “Now we’ll have to go back to town, and
find out who was robbed.”
Back to the police station went the two constables, panting somewhat
after their fruitless run. They reached the lockup about the same time
Deacon Blackford did. There were no prisoners in the jail then, so the
services of a watchman were temporarily dispensed with.
Hen and Tim saw a figure walking along the street near the little
building that contained a few cells. Their previous experience had made
them suspicious of any one abroad at this hour.
“There’s another one of ’em!” exclaimed Hen.
“Another who?” asked his fellow officer.
“Burglar. We’ll get him. Come on!”
Determined that this second midnight prowler should not get away the two
constables made a rush for him.
“We’ve got you!” cried Hen.
“Surrender!” yelled Tim, drawing his revolver.
“Here! Let me go! What does this mean?” cried Joe’s foster-father.
At the sound of his voice the two constables released their holds and
stepped back.
“Deacon Blackford!” they gasped.
“That’s who I am,” was the response. “But what does this mean?”
“We—we took you for a burglar,” explained Hen. “We chased one a while
ago, and missed him, and we were suspicious when we saw you.”
“What are you doing out so late?” asked Tim.
“I came to report a robbery.”
“Where?” asked both officers eagerly.
“At my house. I’ve been robbed of some money and valuable papers. Some
of my wife’s money was also taken.”
“What did I tell you!” wailed Hen Sylvester. “I knew that burglar who
got away took something! If we had only caught him!”
“Did you see him?” quickly inquired the deacon.
“Yes, but we couldn’t see his face—couldn’t tell who he was,” explained
Tim.
“I can tell you who he was!” announced the deacon, importantly.
“You?” gasped both constables.
“Yes! He was Joe Strong!”
“Joe Strong? What! Not your——”
“My foster-son,” broke in the deacon. “I regret to say that he has run
away with money and valuable papers belonging to me. I want him
arrested. I’ll swear out a warrant in the morning. But if you look for
him now you may find him. Arrest him on sight!”
“No use looking now,” said Hen, despondently.
“Why not?”
“Because he took the midnight freight. We saw him jump into an empty car
as the train was pulling out of the station. I knew he must have been up
to some mischief, or he wouldn’t have run the way he did.”
Then Tim and Hen, by turns, told of their fruitless chase after Joe.
“We didn’t know who he was until you told us,” said Hen to the deacon,
“but we suspected he was a burglar. Did he get much?”
The deacon told the details of the robbery, the fire and its
extinguishment, and how he had set out to invoke the law on his runaway
foster-son.
“I want him arrested and locked up,” he told the constables.
“We’ll have to catch him first,” said Tim, with a shake of his head,
“and there’s no telling where he might jump off the freight. We’ll have
to send out posters with his picture on, same as the regular police do.
Were you thinking of offering a reward?” he asked.
“No,” answered the deacon. “At least not yet. We’ll try to catch him
without one first. Later on—well, I’ll see.”
There was nothing more to be done that night, and in the morning Deacon
Blackford swore out a warrant for Joe’s arrest.