CHAPTER IX
UNDER ARREST
It was a few minutes short of twelve o’clock when we drew up at the Ashton dock. Red wanted to turn the organ on immediately, to sort of hilariously announce our arrival in town. But Scoop shook his head on the freckled one’s suggestion. The better plan, the leader said, would be to call on the mayor, first of all, and learn what the town’s attitude was toward traveling shows.
Several kids came running in the time that we were securing the Sally Ann to the dock.
“Look at the funny boat!” one of the newcomers yipped.
“It’s a show boat,” another cried, taking in our stage and seats with a pair of busy eyes.
“The greatest show of its kind an earth,” Scoop told the curious ones. “Kermann, the master magician of the age. Makes tables appear and disappear right before your very eyes. Carries a human head on a platter. Don’t miss it, fellows. It’s a humdinger of a show. Cheap, too: only ten cents for kids.”
It was good business for us, the leader said, to treat the kids right and answer their questions about the show.
“For they’ll go home,” he explained, “and tell their folks everything we’ve said. Then, of course, the whole family will want to see what the show’s like.”
When the Sally Ann was securely tied to the dock, Scoop and I started down the main street in search of the mayor. His office, we were told upon inquiry, was in the town hall.
A short, fat man with a friendly face, we took a liking to the executive as soon as we set eyes on him. There was something about him that gave us confidence in him.
“Well, boys,” he smiled, “what can I do for you this morning?”
Scoop, as spokesman, explained about our show.
“Um.… You say it’s a boys’ show?”
“There’s four of us in it.”
“Four boys?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There aren’t any grown people back of the proposition, or in any way connected with it?”
“No, sir.”
The mayor laughed in a sudden thought.
“You must be the ‘enterprising young showmen’ that I read about in the Tutter newspaper.”
“That’s us,” grinned Scoop.
“Did Stair send you over here to ‘toot your show horn at our canal door,’ as he put it in his newspaper article?”
“Mr. Stair has nothing to do with our show,” Scoop assured quickly.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Well, we usually charge a license fee for traveling shows, but I guess we’ll forget about the fee in this case. Yes, boys, you have my permission to go ahead with your show. Only don’t try any skin-game. If you do, you’ll get into trouble.”
We thanked him warmly, assuring him that our show was clean, and no skin-game, as he called it.
“Let me give you some free tickets,” Scoop offered.
But the executive firmly brushed the tickets aside.
“No, boys. I don’t accept presents for granting favors. To not do that is one of the rules of my office. I thank you, though. And it isn’t improbable that I will be around this evening to see what kind of magicians you are.”
When we were almost to the door, Scoop turned back.
“I wonder,” he said, “if you can tell us the name of the people who live in the log house on the canal bank coming into town.”
“You must mean the Garber place.”
“There’s a girl about my size in the family.”
“Yes; that is old Mr. Garber’s granddaughter. What about it?”
“We saw a pair of suspicious-acting strangers hanging around there.”
“Well?”
“Maybe the place is a counterfeiters’ den.”
The mayor gave a hearty laugh.
“I don’t know who your ‘suspicious-acting strangers’ were; but I can assure you that Mr. Garber himself is a most trustworthy citizen.”
“The men went into the house,” Scoop hung on.
“They may have been tramps begging a meal.”
“Tramps,” was the quick reply, “don’t go to people’s front doors.”
I could see from the mayor’s actions that he was impatient to get rid of us.
“I hope,” he laughed, taking up a legal-looking paper and giving it his attention, “that you boys prove to be better showmen than you have detectives. Good day.”
We quickly located the newspaper office. Entering the building, we found an elderly man back of the counter writing in a big book. We tried to get his attention, but he was too busy to notice us. Scoop got huffy.
“Is this a printing plant?” he inquired in a sharp voice.
The bookkeeper lifted his head and scowled at us over his glasses.
“I thought it was a printing plant when I first came in,” Scoop went on, squinting around curious-like, “but it seems to be a sort of waiting room … for customers.”
The man’s face went red under the thrust.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
“Could you print four hundred handbills in a hurry?”
“That all depends. Who’s orderin’ ’em?”
“We are.”
“And who are ‘we’?”
Scoop chestily informed the other that we were in town with our floating theater and proposed to give an evening performance.
“To advertise our show,” he went on, “we’ll need some printed handbills—small ones, about four inches by six inches. How soon can you print them?”
“Printin’,” the man said pointedly, “costs money.”
“How much money?”
“Um.… Four hundred four-by-six handbills will cost you three dollars.”
At the leader’s directions I brought out my roll of greenbacks and peeled off three one-dollar bills.
“Well, well,” said the man, sort of thawing out at sight of our wealth.
“If we give you the job,” Scoop said, “you’ve got to promise to have the handbills ready for us by three o’clock. For it’ll take us a couple of hours to distribute them, and we’ll want to complete the job before supper.”
“Got much copy?”
“Not more than a hundred and fifty words.”
“That bein’ the case, I ought to git the job out by two-thirty easy.”
Here is the advertisement that Scoop wrote:
SEE KERMANN, THE MASTER MAGICIAN
The Great Kermann is in town!—the master magician of the age.
See him! See him! See him!
He makes tables disappear right before your very eyes.
The “Living Head,” the most baffling trick of modern magic—Kermann does it; actually carries the “Living Head” about the stage on a platter.
You will shiver; you will be mystified; you will laugh at the droll antics of the amazing “Living Head.”
A show for old and young.
We will give our first performance in Ashton to-night, on our magnificent floating theater, the Sally Ann, which will leave the central dock for a moonlight excursion down the canal at 8:30.
Enjoy the moonlight ride; hear the orchestrelle.
|
Admission, 15c. |
Children, 10c. |
THE “SALLY ANN” SHOW COMPANY
We stopped at a bakery and bought a pie and two loaves of bread, after which we hurried to the dock, hoping that dinner would be ready for us when we got there.
Peg came running to meet us.
“Did you see ’em?” he inquired, excited.
“See who?”
“The Strickers.”
“What?” cried Scoop, staring.
“They’re in town,” Peg waggled. “We saw them on the canal bridge about ten minutes ago. Bid and Jimmy and the Watson kid. They were with a strange man.”
A cloud came into the leader’s face.
“If they try any of their tricks to-night,” he waggled, his jaw squared, “something is going to drop.”
When dinner was over we put everything in order on the boat, so that there would be no hitch when it came time to give our evening show. Red had oiled the organ that forenoon, so shortly after two o’clock we put the music-maker into snappy operation. This drew the kids.
“I’m putting a line or two in to-night’s issue about your show,” the newspaper man told us, when we called at his office for our handbills. “I hope you have a good crowd.” He listened sharply for a second or two, “Is that your orchestrelle that I hear?”
“Sure thing,” grinned Scoop. “Isn’t it a darb?”
“Is it playing a tune?”
“ ‘The Old Oaken Bucket.’ ”
The man grunted.
“If that’s ‘The Old Oaken Bucket’ I’m ‘The Last Rose of Summer.’ Well, good luck, boys. And thanks for the three dollars and for coming over and waking us up.”
When we were in the street Scoop gave me half of the handbills.
“You take the east side of town,” he instructed, “and I’ll take the west side. Leave a handbill at each house; and where you see a woman on her porch, or standing in her doorway, take off your cap and be very polite, so that she will have a good opinion of us. If she asks you any questions about our show, give her a nice little spiel.”
I had been at work for possibly thirty minutes when suddenly I heard my name called. Turning quickly, and looking into the street, I saw Scoop in the back seat of an automobile. A uniformed policeman was seated beside him. Jimmy Stricker and the Watson kid shared the front seat with the driver. Bid was hanging to the car’s side, riding on the running-board.
“You’re goin’ to catch it!” he yipped at me, screwing up his face in a mean way.
My heart sank. For I realized that my chum was under arrest. And, plainly, it was the policeman’s intention to arrest me, too.
For an instant I thought of taking to my heels and running away. But I didn’t do that. I had done nothing to justify arrest. So why should I play the coward and run away, to be reminded of it ever afterwards by the hated Strickers? Besides, it wasn’t right to desert my chum.
Jumping out of the car, the policeman clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“You’re under arrest, young feller,” he growled.