"Poor old Bony," said the Egyptian Mystic. "It's a pity your missus ain't a bit of a freak, so as we could have her along. Now, if she could eat fire we might find a place for her. Fire-eaters are very popular. I suppose she couldn't learn to eat fire, Bony?"
The Living Skeleton shook his head gloomily over his poor meal. "I'm afraid she couldn't," he said. "Jane ain't got any gifts."
The meal was finished, and the utensils were washed and restored to the caravan cupboard, a zinc-lined packing case. Professor Thunder was down on his back on the crisp grass again, smoking. He was feeling good, and opened his heart.
"We'll top off with a touch of old Jamaica, Nickie, my boy," he said.
"There's a bottle in the box-seat. You might lead her out."
Nickie needed no second invitation. He sprang up with unaccustomed alacrity, and passed out of the circle of light into the bush darkness. He found the bottle in the locker under the driving seat, and stepping down from the vehicle turned again towards the fire. The extraordinary change in the peaceful scene he had just left flashed upon him with the vividness of a tableau in melodrama The gifted members of Professor Thunder's world company were no longer lounging carelessly on the grass, they stood erect, grouped together, their faces, tense with fear and amazement, showing whitey-yellow in the firelight, their hands thrown above their heads. Facing them on the other side of the fire, with his profile to Nicholas Crips, was a short, stoutly-built man, in a coarse blue shirt and corduroy riding pants, with a white handkerchief tied loosely about his neck. A fine chestnut horse stood behind him. The rein was looped over his arm. In his right hand this man held a long, business-like Colt's revolver pointed at the group before him.
It was a fine picture, intensely dramatic, it amazed Nickie, and brought him up short with a gasp, but it did not appeal to him as an artist particularly. He stepped sharply into cover of a gum butt. His hand went instinctively to his breast where, in a small chamois bag next his skin, he carried a certain treasure the care of which was the one real concern of his present life.
"See here," said the gentleman with the long revolver, "the first of you, man, woman or child, that stirs a finger or utters a yelp gets lead poisonin'. Understand?" He looked round. "This is the whole band?" he said.
Professor Thunder nodded his head.
"Yes," said the intruder, "I was at your show at Big Timber, Professor, an' I took trouble t' size up the strength of the crowd. I guessed it would be an easy thing, and it is."
"Who are you?" asked the celebrated entrepreneur, much distressed to find himself in a theatrical situation that was painfully real.