"They've got him, I know they have," Dick muttered as he turned away with a sob in his throat. "James Cross—that's the name on the show, and I'll follow them everywhere, till I get Pat back."
But he went through all the Fair again, without finding any trace of the boy who had told him. Presently he saw the empty waggons drawn up in the side alley, and with fresh hope in his heart he hurried along.
And in the last in the row "James Cross" was painted and, from somewhere within, there came a low, unhappy whine.
Instantly Dick was at the door calling "Pat!" and whistling the familiar call, and this was answered by a storm of eager muffled barking. The locked door was shaken in vain, and there was no possible way of rescue there.
But Dick rushed back to the middle of the Fair, and going at once to the friendly policeman cried, "I've found him! I've found him! He's locked up in their waggon down that side street. Oh, please make them come and let him out."
"Is this true?" said the officer sternly to the showman, who had heard every word. "Have you got his dog?"
"'Tisn't his, it's mine. The young rascal stole him from me and now wants to make out it's his own."
"But you said just now you hadn't got another dog. When did he steal it?"
"This morning, and I got him back, of course."
"I didn't steal it, sir," cried Dick indignantly. "It's my very own. Come and hear how he barks when I call him."