The Rose in the Ring

G >> George Barr McCutcheon >> The Rose in the Ring

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Ernie spoke up shrilly. "You bet your life he ain't going to leave the
show." Dick turned pink about the ears.

"Never mind that, kid," he said uneasily. David instinctively knew
that there was a girl in the balance.

Dick had the wonderful knack of "spotting" a policeman two blocks
away. At times this quality in him was positively uncanny.

"I can see 'em through a brick wall," he said to David. "I guess it
must be second sight."

"It's second smell," said Ernie briefly.

They came at length to the show grounds. Here, to David's amazement,
every one they met greeted the tall youth with a shout of joy. He
shook hands with all of them, from the hostler to the manager, from
the "butcher" to the highest-priced performer, without any apparent
distinction.

"Hello, Dick, old boy!" was the universal greeting.

"Hello, kid!" was his genial response, to young and old alike. Women,
sunning themselves, waved their hands gayly at him; some of them
wafted kisses--which he gallantly returned. Old Joey Noakes took his
pipe out of his mouth, crinkled his face up into a mighty smile, and
exclaimed:

"It's good for sore eyes to see you again, Dicky. How was it this
time?"

"I liked the stone pile better than the chuck they gave us. Gee whiz,
I'll never get pinched in that burg again."

David turned away for a moment to speak to some one. When he looked
again, Dick Cronk had disappeared.

"Where is he?" he asked of old Joey.

"He's 'arf-way uptown by this time," said the clown quizzically.

"Who is he, Joey?"

Joey looked surprised. "Don't you know Artful Dick Cronk?" he
demanded. "Why, Jacky, he's the slickest dip--that's short for
pickpocket--in the United States. He's the king of all the glue-
fingers, that boy is. My eye, 'ow he can do wot he does, I can't for
the life of me see." He then went into a long dissertation on the
astonishing accomplishments of Artful Dick Cronk.

"And you all associate with him?" cried David, openly surprised.

"Certain sure. Why not? He's the most honest dip I ever see. He
wouldn't touch a thing belonging to one of us--not a thing. He works
only on these 'ere rich blokes wot thinks we're scum and vermin. But,
I say, Jacky," he interrupted himself to say sagely, "I wouldn't be
seen with 'im too often if I was you. He _does_ have to make some
very sudden escapes sometimes, unexpected like, and I doubt if you can
dodge as well as he can. If that feller was to give up lifting pocket-
books, he could be the grandest lawyer in ten states. Wot he don't
know about the law nobody else does. Experience is a wonderful
teacher. He comes by 'is name rightly, he does,--Artful Dick. I've
larfed myself sick many a time listening to 'ow he lifted things. Once
he actually took a feller's pocket-book out of 'is inside westcut
pocket, removed the bills, signed a little receipt for 'em, and then
returned the leather to the gent's westcut. Later on he 'eard the chap
was going to use the money to pay off a morgidge and that he 'ad a
sick wife. Wot did Dick do but 'unt him up again and put the money
back, removing the receipt and substituting a fifty-dollar bill be'd
filched from a wise guy in a bank, all wrapped up in a little note
telling the chap to give it to 'is wife with the compliments of Old
Nick. I've larfed myself to sleep wondering wot the feller thought
when he found the note!" "I've never seen any one just like him. He's
a very odd person," said David. "I think I should like him in spite of
what he is."

"Everybody likes him. He's so light-'earted he almost bursts with joy.
He's followed us for two seasons, and I've never knowed 'im to do a
mean or dishonorable thing," said Joey with perfect complacency. And
yet Joey Noakes was the soul of integrity! David could not help
laughing; whereupon the clown hastened to add: "Except to steal."

"I'm sorry he's that kind," deplored David.

"He's about twenty-one," said Joey, a retrospective light in his eye.
"He first joined us as a sleight-o'-hand man in the side-show. That
cussed little brother of 'is got a job taking tickets. Dick 'ad been
in jail a couple of times and he decided to turn over a new leaf. He'd
'a' been all right if it 'adn't been for Ernie. Ernie didn't think he
was making enough money by being honest, so he just naturally drove
'im to picking again. That boy is a little devil. You see, the trouble
with poor Dick is, that he's set 'imself up to protect and provide for
Ernie all 'is life. It seems that he's responsible for the deformity.
When Ernie was five years old, Dick, who 'ad a wery disagreeable
temper in them days, kicked the little cuss downstairs. The kid was
laid up for months and he came out of it all twisted up--just as you
see 'im now. Well, Dick never got mad at anybody after that. He wery
properly swore he'd take care of Ernie and try to make up for wot he'd
done to 'im. He said he'd beg or steal or kill if he 'ad to, to
provide for 'im. He's never 'ad to beg or kill, I'm thankful to say.
So, you see, he ain't altogether to blame for 'is occupation. Ernie's
a miser. He wouldn't be satisfied with 'arf of a decent man's wages,
if Dick minded to go to honest work; he must have 'arf of all Dick can
steal, and he sets up a 'orrible rumpus if Dick don't make some good
pulls. Ernie's excuse for 'is greediness is this: he says he wants to
'ave plenty to fall back on if Dick 'appens to get a long term in the
pen. Who's going to support 'im, says he, while Dick's doing time? Wot
do you think of that for brotherly love?"

"It's unbelievable!"

"He curses Dick in one breath and sweeties 'im in the next," went on
Joey. "Wheedles 'im, don't you see. Once Dick was in the jug for two
months. Ernie wanted to kill 'im afore he got out, he was that enraged
at 'im for being so inconsiderate as to get caught. They say Ernie has
several thousand dollars in a bank in New York, every nickel of which
Dick stole for 'im. Dick spends 'is own share freely, or gives it away
for charity, or--ahem! lends it to needy persons as 'appens to know
'im."

"Poor fellow! What a life! What is to become of him?" cried David,
genuinely concerned.

"Oh, he's got all that set down in 'is book of fate, as he calls it.
He says he's going to be 'anged some day. He's just as sure of it as
he's sure he's alive."

"Just a morbid notion."

"Well, it's his antecedents, as the feller would say. In the family,
so to speak. His father was 'anged for murder when Dick was eleven
years old. I daresay it's got on 'is mind, poor lad."

"His father was hanged?" cried David, in a lowered tone. A swift
shudder swept over him.

"He was," said Joey, refilling his pipe and preparing to scratch a
sulphur match on his bandy leg. "And a good job it was, too. He was a
'ousebreaker, and he 'ad a wery gentle wife who prayed for 'im every
night and tried to get 'im to give up the life on account of the
children. One night he got drunk and shot a perfectly 'elpless old man
whose 'ouse he was robbing. That's wot they swung 'im for. I daresay
that's why Dick 'as never took to drink. He says it takes the polish
off from a chap's ambition."

All this time, at the back of the "snack-stand" across the lot the
Cronk brothers were engaged in earnest conversation, low-toned and
serious, irascible on the part of the one, conciliatory on the part of
the other.

"You know I give you half _always_, Ernie," said tall Dick, almost
plaintively. "I never hold out on you."

"You say you don't," snarled the other between his teeth. "You got
more than twenty dollars out of that guy last night, didn't you? I
know you did."

"S' help me God, Ernie, I didn't get a--"

"He had nearly fifty dollars in the saloon."

"I don't know where it got to, then. I nipped only two tens, I swear,
Ernie. Why, I wouldn't do you a dirty trick like that for the world."

"You done me a dirty trick once," grated the misshapen lad. "If it
hadn't been for you I'd be as straight as anybody and I--"

"Don't begin on that again, Ernie," pleaded Dick. "Ain't you ever
going to give me a rest on that? Ain't I trying to make up for it, the
best I know how?"

"Yes, and didn't you let 'em catch you back there in Staunton? Is that
the way you make it up? Letting me starve--almost." He glared at the
ground. "Yes, if I was straight she'd look at me, too. She wouldn't
look the other way every time I come around. Oh, you don't know how it
feels! She'd go out walking with me instead of that Virginian smart
aleck who killed his grandpa. But just see how it is, though! She
won't look at me! She won't even look at me!"

A whole world of bitterness dwelt in that cry of despair.

"If I was straight like you, she'd--she might love me. She might marry
me. Just think of it, Dick! I might get her." With the inconsistency
of the selfishly irrational he added: "I've got plenty of money. I
could give her fine clothes and--But, oh, what's the use? She hates to
look at me. I--I hurt her eyes--yes, I hurt her eyes!"

It was pitiful. Greed and avarice had made a hateful little monster of
him, and yet a heart of stone would have been touched by the misery in
his eyes, the anguish on his lips. Dick murmured helplessly:

"May--maybe you can get her anyhow, Ernie. Maybe you can. Maybe--
maybe."

But Ernie's emotion underwent a sudden change. Spitefulness leaped
into his eyes; the wail of misery left his voice and in its place came
shrill blasphemy. After he had cursed Dick and David Jenison to his
heart's content he came to a standstill in front of his unhappy
brother. Sticking out his lower jaw angrily he snapped:

"Where's the sapphire ring you got from the feller in
Charlottesville?"

"I--I still got it."

"Oh, I see!" sneered Ernie, drawing back. "You're saving it to give to
Ruby Noakes, eh? That's it, is it? Cheating me out of it to give to
her. An engagement ring, eh? Say, you--"

"Hold on, Ernie," said Dick sternly. "I'm not going to do anything of
the sort. Why--why, I couldn't give Ruby anything I'd stole. I
couldn't!"

"Aw, but you don't mind giving me things you've stole. I'm different,
am I? I'm not as good as she is, am I? Well, say, lemme tell you one
thing: Ruby Noakes ain't going to hook up with a sneak thief."

"Ernie," said Dick, going very white and speaking very slowly, "you
sometimes make me wish you'd 'a' died that time."

"I wish I had! Then they'd 'a' hung you."

"I was only nine," murmured Dick, trying to put his arm around his
brother, only to have it struck away with violence.

"And I was only four," scoffed the other. "Say, let's see that ring."

Dick produced the sapphire. It was most unusual in him to carry the
smallest part of his gains on his person. The circumstance struck
Ernie at once.

"So you _were_ going to give it to her," snapped he.

"She wouldn't take it if I were fool enough to offer it," said Dick
quietly, dropping the ring into his brother's hand. It immediately
found a new resting place in the latter's pocket.

"Maybe the other one will take it from me," he grinned.

"You'd better not try it, Braddock would kick you to death."

"Everybody wants to kick me," whined the other, taking a new turn.
"But, say, he didn't offer to kick me last night when I told him she'd
been out walking with that guy. I seen 'em--I seen 'em sneaking in. I
told Brad. I bet he raised thunder with 'em."

Dick was looking out past the stand in the direction of the big tents.

"I'm not so sure," he said dryly. "I see Brad and Christine and the
guy you mean talking over there by the entrance. They seem to be in a
specially good humor."

Ernie sprang forward, his eyes dilated. He stared for a full minute
without blinking. Then his grip on Dick's arm suddenly relaxed.

"Oh, God, how I wish I was straight and handsome like him!" he cried
brokenly.

Dick did not look down, but he knew that the tears were standing in
the boy's eyes.

"Don't think about it, Ernie," he began.

Ernie shook off his hand and angrily rubbed his eyes with his bony
knuckles. He sobbed twice, and then burst forth in a shrill tirade of
abuse. Quivering with ungovernable rage, he called Dick every vile
name he could lay his proficient tongue to.

Poor Dick offered up no word of protest, no sign of resentment. When
Ernie stopped for sheer exhaustion, not only of his lung power but in
the matter of epithets, the tall martyr took his hands out of his
pockets, stretched himself lazily, and announced, as if it were
expected of him as a duty:

"Well, the crowd is beginning to gather at the ticket-wagon. I guess
I'd better be strolling among 'em, Ernie. So long."

Ernie looked up eagerly, his mood changing like a flash.

"Good luck, Dick," he said, his eyes sparkling.

CHAPTER VIII

AN INVITATION TO SUPPER

That same night Artful Dick Cronk had a long conversation with Thomas
Braddock. David was the principal subject of discussion. The airy
scalawag was not long in getting to the bottom of the fugitive's
history, so far as it could be obtained from the rather disconnected
utterances of the convivial Thomas. They had come upon each other in a
bar-room, but Dick had succeeded in getting the showman away from the
place before he reached the maudlin stage. The day's business had been
good. Braddock was cheerful, almost optimistic in consequence. He
vociferously thanked his lucky sun, not his stars. Convinced that this
was an uncommonly clever bit of paraphrasing, he repeated it at least
a dozen times with great unction, always appending a careful
explanation so that Dick would be sure to catch the point--or, you
might say, the twist.

"If we only had sunshine like this," he announced with a comprehensive
wave of his hand, regardless of the fact that it was ten o'clock at
night, "I'd clear a million dollars this season. We've got nearly
fifteen hundred dollars in that tent to-night, Dick. Twenty-one
hundred on the day. A week of this beautiful sunshine and we'd be
doing three thousand a day. I'd make old Barnum look like a two-spot.
Did you ever see more beautiful sunshine, Dick? Now, did you?"

"That's not the sun, Brad," said Dick, removing his pipe from his
lips. "That's a canvasman with a torch." They had arrived at the lot.

Braddock swore a mighty oath, and with jovial good-humor chucked Dick
in the ribs, not very gently, it may be supposed. Dick, with
responsive good-humor, seized the opportunity to deliver a resounding
thump on Braddock's back, almost knocking the breath out of him. If
one could have looked into the brain of the grinning pickpocket, he
might have detected a vast regret that policy made it inadvisable to
thump the showman on the jaw instead of the back. He had the
satisfaction, however, of hearing the other cough violently for some
little time.

"Don't be so rough," growled Braddock, taking a fresh cigar from his
pocket to replace the one that had been expelled by the force of the
blow.

"Excuse me," apologized Dick promptly. "Say," he went on, without
waiting for or expecting forgiveness, "tell me something about this
new clown of yours."

Whereupon Braddock lowered his voice and told him as much as he knew
of the story. They sat on a wagon tongue at some distance from where
the men were tearing down the menagerie tent. Dick Cronk puffed his
pipe thoughtfully during the recital. One might have imagined that he
was not listening.

"I don't believe he killed him," said he at the end of the story.

"Neither do I," said Braddock. "But it won't hurt to let him think
that we're all still a leetle bit doubtful."

"I heard all about the murder in Staunton. The sheriff was trying to
head the kid off if he came through that county. We were expectin' to
see him landed in jail any day. They had bloodhounds after him, I
hear." Dick Cronk's body quivered in a sharp spasm of dread.

"Say, Dick, listen here," said Braddock, leaning closer and dropping
his voice to a half-whisper. "I've been wantin' you to turn up ever
since he joined us. What will you say when I tell you he's got more 'n
two thousand dollars with him?"

Dick started. "What!"

"He has. I've seen it. He's lousy with it."

"Well, he came by it honestly," said Dick after a moment.

"How do you know?" demanded the other insinuatingly.

"Honest men are so blamed scarce, Brad, that I can always tell one
when I see him."

Braddock rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and
back again before venturing the next remark.

"It would be no trick at all to get it away from him."

Dick Cronk looked at his averted face. "What do you mean?"

"Think of what a haul it would be."

"I suppose you want me to lift the pile. Is that it?"

"Not unless we come to a thorough understanding beforehand," said
Braddock quickly. "It's my plan, so I get the bulk of it, understand
that."

"I do the job and you get the stuff," sneered Dick, still looking at
his companion. Braddock felt that look and moved uncomfortably.

"It's too much money to let get away," he explained somewhat
irrelevantly.

"Then why don't you pinch it yourself? Why ask me to do it?"

Braddock turned upon him angrily. "Why, I'm no thief! I'll break your
neck if you make another crack like that."

Artful Dick arose. "I'm not so easily insulted," he said with a queer
little laugh. "But, say, Braddock, let me tell you one thing. I'm not
going to touch that kid's wad, and you ain't either. I'm a friend of
his'n, after what happened to-day. Put that in your pipe, Brad, and
smoke it."

Braddock gulped painfully. "See here, Dick, don't be a fool. We can
clean up a--"

"You'd take the pennies off a dead nigger's eyes," interrupted the
pickpocket scathingly.

"I'd do anything to keep the show from busting," said the other with
the air of a martyr. "Anything to save my wife's little fortune, and
anything to keep my performers from going broke."

"I suppose your wife thinks it's all right to get this kid's money
away from him," said Dick sarcastically.

"She--why, of course, she wouldn't know anything about it. She's so
blamed finicky."

"Of course!" scoffed Dick.

"But she'd stand for it, if she ever did find it out. She needs the
money just as much as I do, only she likes to appear sanctimo--"

"I hate a liar, Brad," said Dick coolly.

Braddock arose unsteadily. "You mean ME?"

"I do," said the thief to the liar. "You know you lie when you say
she'd back you up in a game like that."

"I've a notion to smash you one."

"Here's your watch, Brad, and your pocketbook. I nipped 'em just now
to see if I'm in practice. Oh, yes, and your revolver, too." He
laughed noiselessly as he laid the three articles on the footrest of
the wagon and turned away.

Braddock blinked his eyes. As he replaced the articles in their
places, he said admiringly: "Well, you do beat the devil!"

When he turned, the pickpocket was nowhere to be seen. It was as if
the earth had swallowed him.

Five minutes later Dick appeared quite mysteriously in the dressing-
tent, coming from the skies, it seemed to David, who found him filling
a space that had been absolutely empty when he stooped over an instant
before to adjust his shoe-lacing.

"Hello, kid," said Dick easily. "Say, do you know there's a warrant
for your arrest right now in the hands of the town marshal of this
burg?"

David's heart almost stopped beating.

"How do you know?" he demanded.

"I just piped him and a Pinkerton guy I know by sight hunting up
Braddock. Not three minutes ago. They were talking it over between 'em
out there by the road. The detective's got a picture of you, he says.
Somehow they've dropped on to it that the new clown is you. Evening,
Mrs. Braddock."

The proprietor's wife came up, followed closely by Christine and Ruby,
dressed for the street. In an instant David repeated the startling
news.

"What is to be done?" cried Mrs. Braddock, aghast.

"They sha'n't take you, David," cried Christine.

"Where is my father?" fell from Ruby's frightened lips.

"Not a second to be lost," said Dick. "I've got a scheme. Come in
here, kid, and let me get into the tights you've got on. Tell Joey,
and put the rest of the crowd on to the game," he added to Ruby.

When the town marshal and the detective deliberately stalked into the
dressing-tent a few minutes later, a nonchalant group of performers
greeted them, apparently without interest.

The new clown was partly dressed, but he had not washed the bismuth
and carmine from his lean face. Braddock, perspiring freely, came in
behind the officers. He saw in a glance what had transpired. His cigar
almost dropped from his lips.

"We want you," said the marshal, pushed forward by the detective. The
new clown looked up, amazed, as the hand fell on his shoulder. "No
trouble now," added the local officer, nervously glancing around him.
He knew the perils attending the arrest of a circus performer in his
own domain.

"What's the matter with you?" exclaimed Dick Cronk, jerking his arm
away.

"I want you, David Jenison, for murder in--"

There was a roar of laughter from the assembled crowd of performers.

"Come off!" grinned Dick Cronk. "You're off your base, you rube. Let
go my arm!"

"None of that now," said the detective. "I've got your picture here.
The jig's up, young feller. It's no--"

"My picture?" ejaculated Dick in surprise. "Let's have a look at it. I
never had my picture taken in my life."

The man held out a small solar print of a daguerreotype that David
Jenison sat for the year before at college. While the marshal, in some
trepidation, regained his grip on the prisoner's arm, the crowd of
performers looked at the picture with broad grins on their faces.

"Wash up, Jacky," said Grinaldi, stifling a laugh.

"Let the rubes see what you really look like," added Signor Anaconda.

Dick Cronk proceeded to scrub away the make-up. When he lifted his
face for inspection, the two officers glared at him in positive
consternation.

"I guess I'm not the guy you're after," said Dick coolly. "A blind man
could see that I don't look like that picture. My, what a nice-looking
boy he is! A reg'lar lady-killer."

"You're not the man, that's dead sure," said the Pinkerton operative,
perplexity written all over his face. "We've had a job put up on us,"
he explained, turning to Braddock. "Some smart aleck sent word to our
branch that the real Jenison boy was a clown in this show. We got a
note from some one who said he belonged to the show. They sent me up
here on a chance that it was true. We had this picture in the office.
The note says David Jenison joined the show three weeks ago. How long
have you been with it?"

Dick Cronk was very cunning. "That's funny. I've been with it just
three weeks. Say, I bet I know who put up this job on you." He turned
to his friends. "It was that darned Jim Hopkins. He's always up to a
gag of some sort."

"Where is he?" demanded the detective.

"The Lord knows," said Dick. "He ducked a couple of days ago. Gone to
Cincinnati, I think he said. He works the shell game, and it got
pretty hot for him after we left Cumberland. Well, say, this IS great!
I guess the drinks are on the Pinkerton office. Thaw out, mister.
Charge it to the Molly McGuires."

In the mean time David Jenison, attired in a street gown belonging to
Madam Bolivar, the strong lady, was on his way to the hotel,
accompanied by Mrs. Braddock, Christine and others of the sex he
represented for the time being.

An hour later he stole away from the hotel, in his own clothes, and
boarded a rumbling tableau wagon at the edge of the town, considerably
shaken by his narrow escape, but full of gratitude to the resourceful
pickpocket.

In the railroad yards Dick Cronk hunted out his brother Ernie, and,
standing over him in a manner so threatening that the astonished
hunchback shrank down in fear, he bluntly accused him of informing on
David Jenison.

"I know you did it, Ernie," he said, when the other began to whimper
his denials. "You've done a lot of sneakin' things, but this is the
sneakin'est. If you ever peach on anybody again, I'll--well, I won't
say just what I'll do. It'll be good and plenty, you can be I on
that."

"What'll you do?" sneered Ernie, but cravenly.

"Something I didn't do the first time," announced Dick with deadly
levelness. Ernie turned very cold.

"You wouldn't hurt me?" he whined.

"I'm through talkin' about it," said Dick, turning away. "Just you
remember, that's all."

Colonel Bob Grand descended upon the show the following afternoon. His
customary advent was always somewhat in the nature of a hawk's
visitation among a brood of chickens: it was quite as disturbing and
equally as hateful. Moreover, like the hawk, he came when least
expected.

"Oh, how I loathe that man," whispered Christine to David. She was
waiting for her turn in the ring, just inside the great red and gold
curtains at the entrance of the dressing-tent. Tom Sacks was peeping
through the curtains at the haze-enveloped crowd in the main tent.
David and the slim girl in red were standing at the big gray horse's
head and she was feeding sugar to the animal. The youth in the striped
tights was a head taller than his companion--for David was then but an
inch or two short of six feet and broadening into manhood.

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