His foster-father whipped him for that—whipped him cruelly—and from that time Joe came to dislike, with a dislike that never ceased, the man who had brought him up. From then on his life was more or less miserable. But he did not give up what was born to him in his blood. In secret he imitated the acts of circus performers, remembering some of them from his childhood days, seeing pictures of others on the gaudy fence bills, and, rarely, getting into a show himself. That was his seventh heaven of delight.
As the years went on, Joe gained in health, strength, nerve and daring. Joe was not a paragon—far from it. But he was certainly a remarkable youth, and perhaps “daring” is the best word to use in describing him. He seemed never to be afraid to take a chance, but, if the truth were known, his keen eye and active brain had already figured the chances out in his favor before he undertook any feat.
And now, on this sunny day, he was sitting under a willow tree with his companions, discussing a show given the night before by Professor Rosello.
“Do you mean to tell me, Joe,” asked Tom Simpson, “that you can do any of those tricks the professor did?”
“Some of ’em, yes,” answered Joe. “Of course I can’t do those that need a whole lot of trick apparatus, a darkened stage, and all that. I could if I had the stuff. But I think I can do the one you were talking about as I came up,” and Joe regarded his companions with sparkling eyes.
“You mean the slate trick?” asked Harry.
“Yes. Adding up a sum and making the answer come on the slate. I could do that now, if I had the slate. That was the only trick thing about it all.”
“Was that slate a trick one?” asked Charlie, rumpling up his red hair.
“Yes. It was a trick slate, but not very complicated. Now just watch a moment and I’ll do the trick, as nearly like the professor as is possible. I guess I’ve got some papers and a pencil.”
From his pocket Joe brought out some white slips and a stub of a pencil.