"Well, good-bye," said Joe, as the professor went with him to the railroad station, the burns having progressed rapidly in their healing. "You'll always be able to write me in care of the circus."
"Yes, I can keep track of your show through the theatrical papers, Joe. Let me hear from you occasionally. Write to the New York address where I buy most of my stuff. They'll always have the name of my forwarding post-office on file. And now, my boy, I wish you all success. You have been a great help to me—not to mention such a little thing as saving my life," and he laughed, to make the occasion less serious.
"Thank you," said Joe. "The same to you. And I hope you will soon feel much better."
"A rest will do me good," responded the professor. Then the train rolled in, and Joe got aboard with his valise. He waved farewell to his very good friend and then settled back in his seat for a long ride.
Joe Strong was on his way at last to join the circus.
As he sat in his comfortable seat, he could not help contrasting his situation now with what it had been some months before, when he was running away from the home of his foster-father in the night and riding in a freight car to join the professor.
Then Joe had very few dollars, and the future looked anything but pleasant. He had to sleep on the hard boards, with some loose hay as a mattress.
Now, while he was far from having a fortune, he had nearly two hundred dollars to his credit, and he was going to an assured position that would pay well. It was quite a contrast.
"I wonder if I'll make good," thought Joe. Involuntarily he felt of his muscles.
"I'm strong enough," he thought with a little smile—"Strong by name and strong by nature," and as he thought this there was no false pride about it. Joe knew his capabilities. His nerves and muscles were his principal assets.