The Young Acrobat of the Great North American Circus

I have no intention in continuing as a circus performer, though I am very liberally paid. It is too soon for me to decide upon my future course, but you may tell Mr. Bickford he need not wait for me to resume my place in his shop.

I do not know when I shall see you or Ralph again, but you need have no fear that I shall appeal to your generosity.

Your nephew,Christopher Watson.

Stephen Watson read this letter with surprise and chagrin. He was sorry to hear that Kit was doing so well, and alarmed at his implied doubt whether he had really been left destitute by his father.

"That boy is going to give me trouble," he muttered.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE ATTACK ON THE CIRCUS TENT

Four weeks passed, in which Kit continued to acquit himself to the satisfaction of the manager. His youth and pleasant face, added to his uncommon skill, made him a favorite with the public, and being a boy with a love of adventure he enjoyed thoroughly the constant variety of circus life and travel.

All circus existence is not sunshine, however. There are communities which are always dreaded by circus managers, on account of the rough and lawless element which dominates them.

Early one morning Barlow's circus arrived at the mining town of Coalville (as we will call it), in Pennsylvania. An afternoon performance was given, and passed off smoothly; but in the evening a gang of about twenty miners made their appearance, bent on mischief.

Mr. Clark, the manager, sought Mr. Barlow.

"I think we shall have trouble this evening, Mr. Barlow," he said.

"Guard against it, then. What indications have you seen?"

"A gang of twenty miners have just entered the lot. They look ugly."

"Have the canvas men on guard, and summon the razorbacks, if necessary. Don't provoke a conflict, but be ready for one."

Mr. Clark hastily made his arrangements as quietly as possible. Near the ticket seller lounged a body of men, strong and muscular.

These were the canvas men. Some of them looked as reckless and dangerous as the miners, from whom a disturbance was feared.

These canvas men, whose duty it is to set up and take down the tents, are, for the most part, a rough set. They are paid from fifteen to twenty dollars a month and board. Their accommodations are very poor, but as good perhaps as they are accustomed to. They are not averse to a scrimmage, and obeyed with alacrity the directions of Mr. Clark.

The body of miners marched in procession to the ticket seller and then halted, one serving as spokesman.

"Give us twenty tickets, boss," said the leader.

"Where is your money?" asked the ticket seller, cautiously.

"Never you mind! We're on the free list, ain't we, boys?"

"Yes, we are!" was the chorus from his followers.

"There are no deadheads admitted to the show," said the ticket agent, firmly.

"You'll be a deadhead yourself if you ain't careful, young feller!" was the retort.

"Keep back, men! There are others waiting for a chance to buy tickets."

"Let 'em wait! Just hand over them tickets, or we'll run over you."

The fellow looked so dangerous that the ticket seller saw there was no time to parley.

He raised the well-known circus cry, which is called out in times of danger, like a summons to arms,

"Hey, Rube!"

Instantly the canvas men and razorbacks rushed to the rescue, and made an impetuous attack on the disorderly crowd of miners. They, too, were aching for a fight, and there was a wild scene of battle, in which, as in the ancient days, the opposing forces fought hand to hand.

The canvas men were strong, but so were the miners. Their muscles were toughened by daily toil, and it looked as if the outsiders might win.

Kit was not of course called upon to take part in the contest, but he was unwillingly involved.

One of the miners detached himself from the main body, and creeping stealthily to the big tent, whipped out a large knife, and was on the point of cutting one of the ropes, his intention being to sever one after another till the big tent collapsed. Kit saw his design, and rushing forward seized his arm.

"Hold on there!" he cried. "What are you about?"

"Let me alone, and mind your own business!" returned the miner, in a hoarse, deep voice.

But Kit saw that it was a critical moment, and that great mischief might be done. He looked about him for help, for he was far from able to cope with his brawny antagonist. Still he clung to the arm of the intruder, and succeeded in delaying his purpose.

"Let go or I'll cut you!" said the miner, savagely.

Then Kit in desperation raised the cry, "Hey, Rube!"

But it hardly seemed likely to bring the needed assistance, for all the fighting men were engaged in the battle near the ticket seller.

"That won't do no good, young bantam!" said the ruffian, as he aimed a blow at our hero.

Kit's career would in all probability have been cut short, but for the timely arrival of Achilles Henderson. The giant had heard the boy's warning cry, and being near at hand, rushed to his aid. His arrival was most opportune. He seized the miner in his powerful grasp, and the ruffian, strong and muscular as he was, was like a child in his clutch. His knife fell from his hand, as he was shaken like a reed by the giant.

"Secure the knife, Kit!" cried Achilles.

Kit needed no second bidding. He stooped swiftly and took up the weapon.

But Achilles was needed in another direction.

The contest between the miners and the canvas men still raged fiercely near the ticket stand. It looked as if the intruders would conquer. From the ranks of the defenders rose a wild and desperate cry, "Hey, Rube!"

Achilles heard it.

"Come, Kit!" he said. "We are wanted."

He hurled the miner in his grasp to the ground with such force that the man lay senseless; then he rushed with all the speed which his long limbs enabled him to attain to the scene of the conflict.

Here again he was none too soon. The leader of the miners, who had been the first spokesman and aggressor, was armed with a powerful club with which he was preparing to deal the ticket seller a terrible and possibly fatal blow, when Achilles rushed into the mêlée like a hurricane. He snatched the club from the hands of the ruffian, and dealt about unsparingly.

The ringleader was the first to fall. Next Achilles attacked the rest of the brutal gang, till half a dozen men with broken heads lay upon the ground. The attacking force were completely demoralized, and in dismay fled from the field.

The ticket seller breathed a sigh of relief.

"I thought I was done for, Mr. Henderson," he said, when the giant returned flushed with his exertions. "You are equal to half a dozen men."

"I haven't had so much exercise in a long time," said Achilles, panting. "Kit, where is the knife that scalawag was going to cut the rope with?"

"Here it is, Mr. Henderson."

"I will keep it in remembrance of this little adventure. Perhaps I had better go and look after the original owner."

He met the ruffian limping like one disabled. His look was sullen and menacing.

"Give me my knife," he growled.

"I couldn't think of it, my man!" said Achilles blandly. "Evidently you are not old enough to be trusted with a knife."

"I'd like to thrash you!" growled the miner again.

"I've no doubt of it, my friend; your intentions are good, but can't be carried out. And now I have a word to say," he continued, sternly. "Just get out of the lot as fast as your legs can carry you, or I'll serve you worse than I did before."

The ruffian looked toward the ticket stand. He saw several of his friends limping away like himself, looking like whipped curs, and he saw that there was no choice for him but to obey. With a muttered oath and a sullen scowl, he left the grounds.

"Kit," said the giant, "it won't do for me to exercise like this every day. I shall need a second supper."

"You are certainly entitled to one, Mr. Henderson," replied our hero.

CHAPTER XXVI.

KIT IS MADE A PRISONER

It had been a day of exciting adventure, but so far as Kit was concerned the end was not yet. He performed as usual, but as his second act was over at quarter past nine, he thought, being fatigued, that he would not wait until the close, but go at once to the circus car in which he had a berth, and go to bed.

He crossed the lot, and emerged into the street.

It was moderately dark, there being no moon, and only the light of a few stars to relieve the gloom.

Kit had not taken a dozen steps from the lot when two stout men approached him, both evidently miners.

"That's the kid that prevented my cutting the rope," he heard one say.

"Is he? I saw him with the giant."

"I mean to settle his hash for him," said the first.

Kit saw that he was in danger, and turned to run back to his friends. But it was too late! The first speaker laid a strong arm upon his shoulder, and his boyish strength was not able to overcome it.

"Don't be in such a hurry, kid," said his captor.

"Let me go," cried Kit.

"You belong to the circus, don't you?"

"Yes."

"What do you do?"

"I am an acrobat."

"What's that?"

"I leap and turn somersaults, and so on."

"Yes, I know. Do you remember me?"

"I might if it were lighter."

The man lit a match and held it close to his face.

"Do you know me now?"

"Yes."

"Who am I?"

"You are the man who tried to cut the ropes of the tent."

"Right you are. I would have succeeded but for you."

"I suppose you would."

"Did you call that giant to pitch into me?"

"No; I didn't know he was near."

"He treated me like a brute," said the man, wrathfully. "My limbs are aching now from the fall he gave me."

Kit did not answer.

"I'd like to give him a broken head, as he gave some of my friends. Where is he?"

"I suppose he is somewhere in the lot. I'll go and call him, if you want me to."

"That's too thin! Now I've got you I won't let you off so easy."

"What do you intend to do?" asked Kit becoming alarmed.

"To give you a lesson."

Kit did not ask what kind of a lesson was meant, but he feared it included bodily injury. Then at least, if never before, he wished himself back at his uncle's house in Smyrna, uncongenial as it was otherwise.

The first speaker spoke in a low voice to the second. Kit did not hear the words, but judged what they were from what followed.

The two men placed him beside them, and he was sternly ordered to move on.

They kept the road for perhaps half a mile, then turned off into a narrow lane which appeared to ascend a hill. Finally they stopped in front of a dark cabin, of one story, which seemed to be unoccupied. The outer door was fastened by a bolt.

One of the men drew out a bolt, and threw open the door. A dark interior was revealed. One of the men lit a match, throwing a fitful light upon an empty room. At one end of the apartment was a ring, fixed in a beam, and in the corner was a stout rope.

"That will do," said the first speaker.

He took the rope, secured one end of it to the ring, and then tied Kit firmly with the balance. It was long enough to allow of his lying down.

"Now," said the first man grimly, "I reckon the kid will be safe here till to-morrow."

They prepared to leave the cabin.

"Are you going to leave me here?" asked Kit, in dismay.

"Yes."

"What good will it do you?"

"You'll see—to-morrow."

Kit had ten dollars in his pocket, and he thought of offering it in return for his freedom, but it occurred to him fortunately that his captors would deprive him of it, as it was quite within their power to do, and not compensate him in any way. He understood by this time the character of the men into whose hands he had fallen, and he thought it prudent to remain silent.

As the first captor stood with the door open, while just on the point of leaving, he said grimly, "How do you like it, kid?"

"Not at all," answered Kit.

"If you beg my pardon for what you did, I might let you go."

Kit did not believe this, and he had no intention of humiliating himself for nothing.

"I only did my duty," he said. "I have nothing to ask pardon for."

"You may change your mind—to-morrow!"

Another ominous reference to to-morrow. Evidently he was only deferring his vengeance, and intended to wreak it on his young prisoner the next day.

It was not a comforting thought, nor was it calculated to sooth Kit, weary as he was, to sleep.

The door was closed, and Kit heard the sliding of the bolt on the outside. He was a prisoner, securely enough, and with small chance of rescue.

Now, though Kit is my hero, I do not mean to represent him as above human weakness, and I won't pretend that he didn't feel anxious and disturbed. His prospects seemed very dark. He could not hope for mercy from the brutal men who had captured him. As they could not get hold of the giant they would undoubtedly seek to make him expiate the offenses of Achilles Henderson as well as his own.

"If only Mr. Henderson knew where I was," he said to himself, "I should soon be free."

But there seemed little hope of this. He had not told any one that he intended to retire to the circus cars earlier than usual. The chances were that he would not be missed till the circus company had reached the next town on their route, ten miles away. Then there would be no clew to his whereabouts, and even if there were he might be killed before any help could come to him. So far as he had been able to observe, the miners were—a portion of them, at least—a lawless set of men, who were not likely to be influenced by considerations of pity or ordinary humanity.

Kit had been very religiously brought up during his father's life, at least, and he had not lost his faith in an overruling Providence. So in this great peril it was natural for him to pray to God for deliverance from danger. When his prayer was concluded, he felt easier, and in spite of his disagreeable surroundings he managed to fall asleep.

Meanwhile the circus performance terminated, and preparations were commenced for the journey to the next town. The canvas men swarmed around the tents and swiftly took them down and conveyed them to the freight cars, where they assisted the razorbacks to pack them in small compass.

Harry Thorne, who had his berth next to Kit, turned in rather late. He looked into Kit's bed, and to his surprise found it unoccupied.

"What can have become of the boy?" he asked himself.

He went outside, and espying Achilles Henderson, he said: "Have you seen anything of Kit Watson?"

"Isn't he in his berth?" asked Mr. Henderson, surprised.

"No."

Inquiry developed the fact that Kit had not been seen by any one since the conclusion of his act.

"I am afraid the boy has come to harm," said Achilles. "This is a rough place, and there are plenty of tough characters about, as our experience this afternoon showed."

"What shall we do? The cars will soon be starting, and we must leave him behind."

"If he doesn't show up before that time, I will stay behind and hunt him up. He is too good a boy to be left to his fate."

CHAPTER XXVII.

A MINER'S CABIN

Kit's principal captor was known as Dick Hayden. He was an Englishman, and a leader in every kind of mischief. If there was any disturbance between the miners and their employers, he was generally found to be at the bottom of it. A naturally quarrelsome disposition was intensified by intemperance. In the attack upon the circus tents he found himself in his element. His ignominious defeat made him ugly and revengeful.

His wife was dead, but he had one child, Janet, a girl of thirteen, who cooked for him and took care of his cabin. The poor girl had a hard time of it, but she endeavored so far as possible to avoid trouble with her brutal parent.

It was near ten o'clock when Hayden came home after locking Kit in the deserted cabin. He had gone away without supper, but late as it was, Janet had something hot ready for him on the stove.

"Well, Janet, child, have you my supper ready?" he said, not unpleasantly, for his victory over Kit and the meditated revenge of the next day had put him in good humor.

"Yes, father; it's on the stove and ready to dish up."

"Lay the table, then, for I'm main tired and hungry."

The little girl quickly spread the cloth, and Dick Hayden ate like a voracious animal.

When supper was over he sat back in his chair and lit a pipe. A comfortable supper made him loquacious.

"Well, Janet, you don't ask where I've been."

"Was it to the circus, father?"

"Yes."

"How did you like the show?"

"I didn't see it," he growled, a frown gathering upon his brow.

"And why not, father?"

"Because we had a fight to get in free, and got the worst of it."

"They must be main strong, then, those circus men."

"Strong!" repeated Hayden, scornfully. "Well, mayhap they are, but we'd have bested them but for the giant."

"The giant! Is it the big man I saw in the parade?"

"Yes; he's as strong as three men. He flung me down as easily as I'd throw a boy."

"Then he must have been strong, for you're a powerful man, father."

"There isn't a man as works in the mine'll compare with me, lass," said Hayden, proudly; "but all the same I'm no match for a monster."

"Tell me about it, father," said Janet, with natural curiosity.

Dick Hayden went on to describe the fight around the ticket stand, and how he had slipped away, intending to cut the ropes of the tent and let it down on the heads of the spectators gathered inside.

"I'd have done it, too," he added, "but for a kid."

"I thought just now you said it was the giant."

"And I stick to it, lass; but this boy saw what I was doing, and brought the giant to the spot. I could do nothing after that. He threw me down, so that for a few minutes I was stunned."

"And how did the fight come out at the ticket stand, father?"

"Our men had almost overpowered the circus men, when the giant rushed into the midst, and, seizing a club from Bob Stubbs, laid about him, till half a dozen of our strongest men lay on the ground with broken heads."

What puzzled Janet was, that her father should have come home in such good humor after so disastrous a defeat. It was contrary to her experience of him. She would naturally have expected that he would be surly and quarrelsome. The mystery was soon made clear.

"But we've got even with them!" chuckled Hayden directly after.

"How is that, father?"

"We caught the kid."

"You have?"

"Yes; he was goin' to the circus cars to turn in when Stubbs and I caught him."

"You—you didn't kill him, father?" asked Janet in alarm.

"No, not yet."

"Where is he?"

"Do you mind the deserted cabin on Knob Hill?"

"Yes, father."

"He's locked up in that, tied hand and foot."

"How long do you mean to keep him there?" asked Janet, anxiously.

"Till to-morrow, and then–" Dick paused ominously.

"Well, and then?"

"He'll be lucky if he gets off with a whole skin," growled her father. "But for him I'd have brought down the tent about the ears of the people that sat inside, and we'd have had a fine revenge on the showmen."

"You don't mean to kill the boy, do you, father?"

"What is it to you, lass? You'd best mind your own business. You've got nothing to do with it."

"How does the boy look? Was it the one that drove the first chariot, father?"

"Like enough, lass! Did you see him?"

"Yes; I saw the parade. Everybody was out in the streets then."

"And you took partic'lar notice of the boy? That's like a lass," chuckled Hayden.

"But it was his duty, father, to stand by the show, seein' he belongs to it."

"I don't trouble myself about that. He brought that monster on me, and I'm sore yet with the fall he gave me. I'll take it out of the kid."

"But it seems to me, father, it would be better to lay for the giant."

"What folly is that, lass? I'd be main glad to give the giant a dose of what he gave me, but he'll leave town to-night, and I ain't big enough to tackle him, even if I had the chance. So I'll revenge myself on his friend, the boy. The kid may be his son, for aught I know."

"And what will you do for him, father?" asked Janet, pertinaciously. "You won't kill him?"

"Well, I won't go so far as that, for I've no mind to put my neck in a noose, but I'll flog him within an inch of his life. I'll teach him to mind his own business for the future."

Janet knew her father's strength and brutality, and she shuddered at the idea of the boy being exposed to it. She knew very well it would be of no use to make a protest. She would only get herself into trouble. Yet she couldn't reconcile herself to the thought of poor Kit being cruelly punished. She asked herself what she could do to prevent it.

There was one thing in favor of a rescue. She knew where Kit was confined. If it were not so late she would steal out, and going to the cabin relieve him from captivity. But it was too late, and too dark for that. Besides, she could not leave her father's cabin without observation.

"I will wait till to-morrow morning," she said to herself.

It so chanced that on account of some slight repairs the mine in which her father was employed was shut down for a few days. This was favorable, for he would lie in bed till eight o'clock at least, and there would be a chance to get out without observation.

The next morning, about five o'clock, Janet rose from her bed, hastily dressed herself, and crept to the door of her father's chamber. He was sound asleep, and breathing heavily. There was small chance of his awakening before seven o'clock.

Janet took a little meat and bread in a tin pail, for she thought the captive might be in need of breakfast, and then, putting a sharp knife in her pocket to cut the ropes that bound him, she left the house and took her way over the hill to the deserted cabin which served as Kit's prison.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

KIT RESCUED BY A GIRL

Kit had succeeded in getting a little sleep during the night, but his position was necessarily constrained and he was but very slightly refreshed. Moreover he was a prey to anxiety, for he did not know what fate awaited him on the succeeding day.

At four o'clock in the morning a little light found its way into the cabin through a small window at the rear. The other windows were boarded up.

Kit, appreciating the desirability of escaping before a visit should be made him by his captors, tried hard to work himself out of his bonds, but only succeeded in confining himself more closely than before.

"What will they do to me?" he asked himself anxiously.

He had heard from some of the circus men accounts of the roughness and brutality of the miners, or at least of a certain class of them, for some were quiet and peaceable men, and he knew that there was no extreme of which they were not capable. Life is sweet, and to a boy of sixteen, in good health and strength, it is especially dear. Suppose he should lose his life in this region? Probably none of his friends would ever learn what had become of him, and his uncle and cousin would not scruple to spread rumors to his discredit.

It was certainly tantalizing that he should be tied hand and foot, utterly unable to help himself.

More and more light crept in at the window, and there was every indication of its being a glorious day. But this prospect brought no pleasure to poor Kit.

"Before this time the circus people must have found out my absence," he thought. "Will they take the trouble to look for me?"

Kit was on good terms with his comrades, indeed he was popular with them all, as a bright boy is apt to be, and he did not like to think that no effort would be made to find him. Still, as he could not help owning to himself, they had no clew that was likely to lead to success. He had given no one notice where he was going, and his capture was not likely to have been observed by any one.

While he was indulging in these sorrowful reflections, his attention was drawn to a noise at the window.

"They can't have come back so early," he said to himself in surprise.

He twisted himself round to catch a glimpse, if possible, of the early visitor, and to his delight, he caught a partial view of Janet's dress. Suppose she should prove a deliverer, he said to himself with beating heart.