Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

JOE STRONG
THE BOY WIZARD
OR
THE MYSTERIES OF MAGIC EXPOSED

BY

VANCE BARNUM

Author of “Joe Strong on the Trapeze,” “Joe Strong, the Boy Fish,” “Joe Strong on the High Wire,” “Joe Strong and His Wings of Steel,” etc.

WHITMAN PUBLISHING CO.

RACINE, WISCONSIN

BOOKS FOR BOYS

BY

VANCE BARNUM

THE JOE STRONG SERIES

JOE STRONG, THE BOY WIZARD

Or, The Mysteries of Magic Exposed

JOE STRONG ON THE TRAPEZE

Or, The Daring Feats of a Young Circus Performer

JOE STRONG, THE BOY FISH

Or, Marvelous Doings in a Big Tank

JOE STRONG ON THE HIGH WIRE

Or, Motor-Cycle Perils of the Air

JOE STRONG AND HIS WINGS OF STEEL

Or, A Young Acrobat in the Clouds

JOE STRONG—HIS BOX OF MYSTERY

Or, The Ten Thousand Dollar Prize Trick

JOE STRONG, THE BOY FIRE EATER

Or, The Most Dangerous Performance on Record

COPYRIGHT, 1916

GEORGE SULLY & COMPANY

Printed by

WESTERN PRINTING & LITHOGRAPHING CO.

Racine, Wisconsin

Printed in U. S. A.

JOE STRONG, THE BOY WIZARD

CHAPTER I
JOE SOLVES A PUZZLE

“How did he do it? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“So would I. It sure was a queer trick all right—and it looked so easy, too.”

“Well, I’ve tried to guess, but I can’t. The more I think of it the more I believe that the professor really is a magician, in a certain way.”

“Pooh! It couldn’t be anything like that! It was just a trick, like all the others he did. But I’d like to know how to do it.”

Four boys sat under the shade of a big willow tree in a grassy meadow on the bank of a stream. They were earnestly discussing something, the import of which may be gathered from their talk.

“I tried to do the trick after I got home last night,” confessed Harry Martin.

“You didn’t do it, did you?” asked Charlie Ford, rumpling up his red hair. Charlie was not at all ashamed of his red hair. His sister Mazie called it “auburn,” but Charlie himself stuck to plain “red.”

“Do it? I should say not!” cried Harry. “I didn’t come within a mile of it, and our folks just laughed at me.”

“And yet how easy Professor Rosello did it,” observed Henry Blake.

“Yes, and he didn’t have any machinery or truck on the stage to do it with, as he had for his other tricks,” remarked Tom Simpson. “All he had was a plain slate, same as the little kids use in our school.”

“It must have been a trick slate,” said Harry. “That’s the only way I can account for the figures getting on it.”

“No, there wasn’t any trick about the slate,” declared Charlie Ford. “I was sitting right up front, and he passed the slate to me first, to look at. There wasn’t a sign of a number on it when I had it.”

“And you handed it right over to Mr. Burton to hold, didn’t you?” asked Tom.

“Yes; and Mr. Burton held it until the figures came out on it—under the handkerchief, of course. It sure was a good trick.” Charlie shook his head in wonderment.

“I’d like to know how it was done,” said Henry Blake. “But I don’t s’pose he’d tell us if we asked him. He’s in town yet. I saw him around the hotel when I came past a little while ago.”

“It isn’t very likely he’d tell us how he did it,” said Harry. “That’s the way he makes his living—by doing magical tricks—and it isn’t to be supposed that he’d give away his secrets. But all the same——”

“Hello, fellows! What’s up now?” asked a new voice. “Talking secrets that you don’t want me to hear?”

The four boys, gathered under the willow tree, looked up quickly. Looks of welcome accompanied by smiles greeted the newcomer.

“Hello, Joe!” shouted Charlie Ford.

“Say, you’re looking good!” added Tom.

“I’m feeling good,” was the response. “What’s up?”

“Oh, we’re just talking about the show last night. You were there, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I saw the great Professor Alonzo Rosello give his world-mystifying exhibition of black and allied arts,” and Joe smiled as he quoted from the circulars that had been scattered broadcast over the town of Bedford, advertising the exhibition given in the Opera House the previous evening.

“What did you think of him?” asked Henry Blake.

“Why, he was pretty fair in some things,” said Joe, slowly.

“Pretty fair? Why, say! he was great!” cried Tom Simpson. “I’d like to see you do even the simplest trick that he did!”

“Perhaps I can,” replied Joe, quietly.

His chums looked curiously at him. And, for the moment, we can do no better than to observe this boy, who had sunk down in an easy position on the grass. A moment’s study of him now will help greatly in understanding the nature of a youth destined to have many curious and thrilling adventures. And he was a lad well adapted by nature for a life of daring excitement.

Briefly, Joe Strong was a remarkable boy. From the time of his early infancy he had never known what it was to be ill or ailing. Even the simplest childish diseases seemed to pass him by as one too strong and sturdy to try to weaken. He had a superb physical form, and as soon as he was old enough to take regular exercise he added to his suppleness and strength in a systematic way.

There was no better runner, jumper, swimmer, diver or all-around athlete in Bedford than Joe Strong. Added to this he could ride any horse he ever saw; he could climb to the roof of the church and walk the ridge pole, with never a qualm of dizziness; he was an excellent shot with a rifle; and he could juggle with stones, baseball bats, balls—in fact with almost anything that he could handle. Taking it all in all, Joe was rather remarkable.

Another point in his favor, and one that was destined to stand him in good stead in after life, was the fact that he seemed absolutely without nerves. Rather be it said that his nerves were under such perfect control that he was their master, not their slave. It took high-strung but perfectly controlled nerves to do some of the things Joe did.

The secret of his abilities, if secret it was, lay in the fact that his mother, now dead some years, had been one of the most daring bareback riders in any circus that ever toured the country. She was billed as Madame Hortense, though her name was Mrs. Janet Strong. She was an English woman, and Joe dimly remembered hearing that before her marriage her name had been Willoughby. Beyond that fact he knew little of his mother’s early history.

But it was not alone from his mother that Joe inherited certain health, nerve, daring, ability to ride a horse and to take risks higher up off this solid earth than most persons care to go. He also was indebted to his father for many of his talents and abilities.

Professor Morretti—known in private life as Alexander Strong—had been in his day, one of the best-known and best-drawing (from a theatrical standpoint) magicians that ever brought a live rabbit out of a silk hat, or locked himself up in a solid box, only to be found missing when the box was opened, the professor himself afterward walking coolly down the aisle of the playhouse.

Thus Joe inherited two totally different sets of talents. And that was about all he had inherited from his parents. For they had both died when he was about five years old, the professor first, following a severe attack of pneumonia contracted when one of his water tricks went wrong, and he received a drenching on a zero night.

Mrs. Strong did not long survive her husband. Perhaps she lost her nerve, following news of his sudden death. At that they were traveling in different shows, Joe being with his mother. Usually, however, Professor Morretti and Madame Hortense went about together, caring for little Joe between them.

Only a few months after the professor died, Madame Hortense had a bad fall from a new horse she was trying, and she received injuries which resulted in her death in a few weeks.

Joe was left alone in the world, with only an inheritance of a superb set of muscles, nerves, hawklike eyes and an active brain.

The circus people were kind to him, and did what they could, but a circus is not the best place in the world for an orphan boy, and the manager soon realized this.

Consequently he was glad to read an advertisement of a couple who wanted to adopt a strong, healthy boy of about Joe’s age. Letters were written, and Mr. Amos Blackford came on with his wife to have a look at Joe.

Mr. Beeze, the circus manager, had artfully neglected to state, in his early letters, the fact that Joe was the orphan of a bareback rider and a “Professor of Black Art and Magic”; and when Mr. and Mrs. Blackford discovered this they were well-nigh horrified. For they were old-fashioned persons, with very strict ideas about right and wrong, and to them a woman who rode a horse in a circus was a person not to be admitted to the best society, and they regarded the dead Professor Morretti in about the same light as they would an outlaw.

At first they were going back without Joe. But Mrs. Blackford could not resist the heart-appeal of the attractive little chap, and so he was taken, and carried to the Blackford home in Bedford by his foster-parents, who had since brought him up.

They had done well by Joe, as far as their rather narrow minds let them. They treated Joe harshly at times, without understanding that they did so. They wanted him to forget that he was ever in a circus, that his mother ever rode bareback, and that his father juggled Indian clubs and produced live rabbits from the vest pockets of innocent persons in the audience.

But Joe could not forget those things. He had been born in a circus, and the smell of the sawdust, the jungle odor from the animal tent, always brought back to him, most vividly, his early days.

He had not lived long in Bedford before he became known as a daring little fellow. Mrs. Blackford nearly fainted when once she saw him walking the back fence like a tight rope, with a clothes pole as a balancer in his chubby hands.

And from then on, by gradual stages, Joe advanced to more and more daring tricks, until one day on a challenge he walked the ridgepole of the church.

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.

“Now you fellows just sit in a row a little way apart, and I’ll pretend this is the stage,” went on Joe, as he stood beside a flat stump near the willow tree. “Here, Charlie, you put down a number on this slip of paper. Any number of four figures, say 1,876, or anything you like.”

“All right,” said Charlie, and he wrote a number.

“Now, Harry, you set down a number under Charlie’s,” directed Joe, “and then it will be Henry’s turn. This is the way the professor did it, isn’t it?”

“Yes, only he talked more,” replied Tom.

“Well, I could sling the ‘patter,’ as they call it, if I wanted to,” said Joe. “Only as I’m going to show you how the trick is worked I don’t need a lot of talk.”

“Are you really going to show us?” asked Harry.

“Sure I am! Now, Harry, if you’ve got your number written pass the paper to Henry. You set down a number of four figures, Henry, and draw a line under the sum. Tom, you’re pretty good at addition, aren’t you?”

“Pretty fair, yes.”

“Well, I don’t want any mistake made,” Joe, with a smile, warned them. “Here you go now. Add up those figures Tom, and get ’em right,” and he passed a slip of paper to the boy who had not set down any of the numbers. “Add ’em up, and set the result down in pencil under the line Henry drew. When you’ve done that I’ll make the answer appear on this flat piece of stone. Here, you hold it, Charlie,” and picking up a flat stone from the ground, Joe threw his handkerchief over it and passed it to Charlie to hold. “Don’t take off the handkerchief until I tell you to,” he warned the lad.

“Is the sum added, Tom?” asked Joe, a moment later.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Ten thousand, four hundred and sixty-seven.”

“Good!” cried Joe, and, unconsciously perhaps, he imitated the language, manner and gestures of Professor Rosello. “Now then,” went on the boy wizard, “you three boys each set down a separate number. None of you knew what the others wrote, and Tom, who didn’t write any figures, announces the sum of the other three fellows’ numbers to be ten thousand four hundred and sixty-seven. Am I right, Tom?”

“That’s right Here’s the paper. I’m sure I added ’em up right.”

“Well, I’ve no doubt but you did, Tom. Now then, I think you’ll agree that I didn’t know beforehand what numbers you fellows were going to write, so, of course, I couldn’t tell what they’d add up to. Could I?”

“I don’t see how you could,” admitted Henry, but a little doubtfully.

“Well, now comes the magic part. I’m going, without touching it, to cause this sum, which Tom announces as ten thousand four hundred and sixty-seven, to appear on that flat stone Charlie holds under the handkerchief. I won’t touch the stone, which answers the same purpose as the professor’s slate. But I’ll take the paper you have, Tom, with the sum of ten thousand four hundred and sixty-seven on it,” and Joe did so.

“Now to make the trick more simple I’ll just burn this paper with the sum on, where you can all see it,” Joe went on. He held up the paper in plain sight and set fire to it with a match.

“I will now pronounce the magic words: oshkalaloolu presto, smacko! The sum has now vanished in smoke, and will appear on the flat stone. Charlie, lift the handkerchief and hold up the stone so we can all see it.”

Charlie did so, and there, in black pencil on the gray surface of the stone, was the answer to the little sum—10,467!

“Whew!” whistled Charlie. “How under the sun did you do it, Joe?”

“And right under our very noses, too!” added Tom, in amazement.

CHAPTER II
A FIREWORKS FIRE

Joe Strong smiled at the puzzled looks on the faces of his chums. They were eagerly watching him now, as if asking what he would do next.

“No, I can’t do anything more just now,” he said in answer to the implied request. “I can’t produce a guinea pig from Tom’s ear, nor a bowl of gold fish from under my shirt; though I might if I were loaded for those tricks.”

“Loaded?” asked Charlie, curiously.

“Yes, that is what a magician calls it when he comes out on the stage, with the secret pockets of his dress suit filled with the things he needs for tricks. He may ‘load’ himself with a bowl of gold fish or a couple of rabbits.”

“Alive?” asked Henry.

“Sure! Wasn’t the rabbit alive Professor Rosello took out of dad’s hat last night?” asked Tom.

“How did he do that?” Charlie interrogated “Can you tell us, Joe?”

“Yes, I can, but——”

“Say, I’d rather have him tell us how he did this trick with the figures,” interrupted Harry. “Go on, Joe.”

“Well, it’s really very simple when you know,” said Joe. “You see the sum I made appear on the stone wasn’t the sum of the numbers you three fellows wrote down.”

“It wasn’t?” cried Tom, surprised.

“No,” went on Joe Strong, with a twinkle in his bright eyes. “I let Harry, Charlie and Henry each set down four figures on a piece of paper. Then I handed a piece of paper to Tom to add up the sum, only it didn’t happen to be the same piece that you three fellows used,” and Joe laughed.

“I just substituted one of my own,” resumed the boy wizard. “I had it in my pocket all ready, for I thought maybe I’d get a chance to play this trick to-day. I wadded up in a little ball the paper with the figures you boys set down, and slipped Tom one of my own. Of course I knew what my numbers were going to add up to—I had put down the figures myself, so I ought to know. They were like this:”

4,004

2,821

3,642

—————

Joe showed the little sum, rapidly scribbling it on another piece of paper.

“Those figures add up to ten thousand four hundred and sixty-seven,” he resumed, “and of course I knew that before Tom announced the sum. And I knew I was safe in letting Tom have the list of figures I wrote, for he had not seen those you fellows had set down. I made my set of figures look as though a different person had set down each one, and Tom wasn’t familiar enough with you boys’ way of making figures to detect the change.

“Then, when I took the piece of paper from him, I burned that and with it the one that Charlie, Henry and Harry had written their figures on, so there wouldn’t be any chance of being found out later.”

“But how did you get the sum, ten thousand four hundred and sixty-seven, on the piece of stone?” asked Charlie. “You didn’t touch that after you took the paper from Tom, I can vouch for that.”

“No, I didn’t touch it,” affirmed Joe.

“Then how did the figures get on? There must have been some magic about that.”

“It’s very simple when you know how,” laughed Joe. “When I was talking here to you fellows, I just put the sum, ten thousand four hundred and sixty-seven on the flat side of the stone with a pencil. Then I turned it over and left it lying on the ground until I wanted it. Then it was easy enough for me to pick it up, cover it with a handkerchief and hand it to Charlie to hold. The sum was there on it all the while, and when Tom announced what my three figures added up to, a result that I, of course, knew beforehand, I simply had Charlie lift the handkerchief, and—there you were!”

For a moment there was silence among the boys. Then they burst out with:

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!”

“As easy as that!”

“It’s a wonder we didn’t think of that!”

“Two papers—one with our numbers on, and one with his!”

“That’s the whole secret,” explained Joe. “That is, all but the stone. Of course if I had had a slate to use that would have been a little different.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” observed Charlie. “That professor last night passed the slate around for inspection, and there wasn’t any number written on it.”

“Oh, yes there was,” said Joe with a smile. “Only you didn’t see it. It was a trick slate. On one side, covered by a piece of black stiff paper, which looked almost like the slate, was the number written in chalk—a number that was the sum of three figures previously known to the professor, and on the piece of paper he gave out to be added up.

“When he took back the slate, after having passed it around for inspection, he walked up on to the stage and quietly slipped out the piece of black paper. That left the chalk sum exposed. He could either do that before he covered the slate with the handkerchief and gave it to some one to hold, or afterward, as he took it from the person and raised the handkerchief covering. In his case he did it before, since he let the person holding the slate lift the handkerchief.”

“Then the number was there all the while!” cried Tom.

“Yes.”

“And if the one who held the slate had lifted the handkerchief it would have been seen?”

“Yes. And for that reason it’s safer to lay the slate on a table or on the stage in plain sight, but where no one can inspect it. Then the magician can ask some one to come up and lift the handkerchief, so it can’t be said he wrote the number down himself. That’s all there is to it.”

“Say, it does sound easy now,” commented Charlie. “But how did you ever figure it out, Joe?”

“Yes, you surely did the trick smoothly!” was Tom’s compliment.

“Oh, I’ve studied it a little,” admitted Joe, modestly. “It needs a little practice in ‘palming,’ that is in holding two or more things in your hand without letting the audience suspect you have them; or in changing one thing for another by sleight-of-hand, as I changed the papers. You see it’s very easy—like this.”

He picked up a small stone, held it on the back of his left hand, passed his right quickly over it and closed both fists.

“In which hand is the stone now?” he asked.

“There,” said Tom, indicating the right fist.

“No, there,” said Charlie, quickly, touching the left.

“Neither one, it’s there on Henry’s knee,” announced Joe with a laugh, and so it was, the same stone, for it was peculiarly marked.

“How did you do it?” cried Henry, in frank amazement.

“Oh, just by making the action of my hands quicker than your eyes,” was the answer. “I made a couple of false motions, and you followed them with your eyes instead of watching the stone. That’s how I managed to substitute the paper with my figures on for the one Tom thought you boys had prepared. It’s very simple.”

“Yes, to hear you tell it,” came from Henry. “But say, Joe, how did the professor do that trick with the live rabbit? I was close to him when he came down off the platform, and I couldn’t see where he had the bunny. And yet, in plain view, he pulled it out of somebody’s inside coat pocket. How in the world did he do it?”

“It was easy—for him,” Joe stated. “When he finished the hat and egg trick he went behind the scenes for a second and slipped the live rabbit in a secret pocket in his coat.

“After some hocus-pocus work, and a lot of ‘patter,’ or talk made up to keep you from watching him too sharply, he went close to the man from whose pocket he was going to produce the rabbit. He held the lapel of the man’s coat close against his own for a second, and with his other hand he reached in the secret pocket and got hold of the rabbit’s ears. Then, when he lifted the bunny up, it looked just as if the animal came out of the man’s pocket, but, all the while, it came from the professor’s.”

“Huh!” exclaimed Tom. “It all sounds very easy.”

“It is, and again it isn’t,” explained Joe. “It takes lots of practice, and one’s got to have his nerve with him all the while, to know how to act in case anything goes wrong.”

“Then you ought to be a good wizard,” declared Henry, “for you sure have nerve!”

“That’s right,” added Harry Martin. “But say now, Joe, in that trick where the professor took——”

Harry did not finish his sentence. His words were cut short by an explosion which came from a group of buildings located near a railroad siding about a quarter of a mile away. Following the explosion a cloud of black smoke billowed up to the sky.

“Look, fellows!” cried Tom. “It’s the fireworks factory!”

“It’s on fire!” added Henry.

“It’s blown up!” yelled Charlie.

“Come on, boys! Come on!” shouted Joe, and he led the way toward the cloud of smoke, which was now pierced here and there by darting tongues of fire. As the boys rushed onward there came other and smaller explosions, like the popping of guns.

CHAPTER III
TO THE RESCUE

For a few moments after the excitement caused by the explosion and fire, the five boys rushed on together, saying nothing. Their eyes were fixed on the distant group of burning buildings, which, being of light and flimsy construction (as is always the case with fireworks factories and powder mills), were burning rapidly. They occupied quite an extent of territory, being well separated so that if one blew up or caught fire there would be less likelihood of all being consumed.

“She sure is a hummer!” cried Harry, as he raced along beside Charlie Ford.

“That’s right!” joined in the red-haired lad.

“The whole thing’s likely to go up if the wind doesn’t shift,” commented Henry Blake. “It’s blowing the flames right toward the main building now.”

“Yes, and they’re all pretty well filled,” said Joe Strong. “This is their busy season, getting ready for the Fourth, you know. There’ll likely be a lot more explosions, and a final big one.”

“There goes one now!” cried Tom Simpson.

As he spoke there was a burst of flame and smoke from one of the buildings that had not before caught fire, and then followed an explosion louder than any of the previous ones.

“There she goes!” shouted Harry.

“And look at the rockets!” added Joe.

A sheaf of sky rockets, part of a shipment just finished, had become ignited and now were whizzing up in the air, bursting with loud reports far above the earth, for they were large-sized pyrotechnics.

“If this were only night it would be a grand sight!” murmured Charlie, narrowly missing a fall as he stumbled over a stone.

“Too bad they couldn’t wait,” commented Joe, grimly. “Say! I wonder if any one’s hurt. It came so suddenly that a lot of the workers may be trapped in there.”

“That’s so,” agreed his chums. They increased their pace. They could now see others running to the fire—men, boys, and some women and children, coming from the direction of the town. Others were leaving their work in fields, gardens, or in houses to view the unusual sight.

There was not a little alarm, too, for many of the men and some girls and boys of the town worked in the Universal Fireworks Factory, particularly at this season of the year.

The factory was located close to the freight station of the Bedford and Point Barrow Railroad, a spur, or short track, running in among the factory buildings. On the sidings were a number of freight cars, which carried big red signs, marked: “Dangerous! Explosive! Keep all lights away!”

But there was plenty of light now, even though the glaring sun took away the effect that would have prevailed had there been darkness—plenty of light and fire.

“She sure is a hummer!” cried Tom.

“A hum-dinger,” added Harry. “Listen to that!”

Another explosion occurred, lifting a roof off one of the frail buildings, and depositing the blazing mass over on the railroad tracks, and rather dangerously near the passenger depot, which was not far from the freight station.

“There goes the fire alarm!” cried Harry.

“They’ll be here in no time. It’s a general alarm when anything like a fireworks factory goes up,” said Joe. “There they come,” he added, as he looked back toward the town, and pointed to an automobile fire-fighting apparatus coming along the road. The auto-engine was a new purchase for Bedford. Besides that, there was an old steamer, drawn by hand whenever horses could not be requisitioned in a hurry.

The five boys had to cross the small stream, known locally as Bedford Creek, in order to reach the scene of the fire. As they rushed along across the fields toward the water, all but Joe bore off to the left. He kept straight on.

“Where you going?” asked Harry.

“To the fire, of course,” was the answer.

“The bridge is over this way,” stated Tom, indicating a white structure that crossed the stream some distance to the left of where the boys then were.

“Bridge!” cried Joe. “Do you think I’d waste time crossing a bridge when there’s a fire like this straight ahead of me?”

“How are you going to get across the creek?” Harry queried.

“Wade or swim, of course. It’s a hot day!”

And while Tom, Harry and the others ran on toward the bridge, Joe Strong, coming to the edge of the creek, which at this point was deeper and wider than at any other, waded out without a moment’s hesitation.

For a moment his chums watched him, fascinated. Then they shook their heads, and kept on toward the bridge.

“He sure has got nerve!” asserted Henry.

“Yes, Joe’s there with it every time,” added Tom. “I wish I dared do that. But if I got wet with all my clothes on, I’d be in for a good scolding when I got home.”

“Joe may be, too—or worse,” said Charlie. “I hear that he and Deacon Blackford don’t get along any too well of late. He’s given Joe several touches of the whip and strap, and Joe’s not a fellow to stand much of that sort of treatment.”

“I wouldn’t blame him for not standing it,” commented Henry. “Deacon Blackford may mean all right, but we all know he’s totally ashamed to have it known what Joe’s father and mother were. As if it could be a disgrace to have had a mother who was a dandy circus rider, and a father who was a top-notcher when it came to magic. I’d be proud of it if my folks were that sort.”

“So would I,” added Harry.

“That’s where Joe gets his nerve,” remarked Tom. “Nerve to do just what he did now—swim the creek.”

“Yes, and that’s where he gets his liking for magic tricks and for his circus stunts,” added Charlie. “He sure is a great boy, and strong. Why, say! you ought to have seen him on the trapeze I put up in our barn the other day. He did one giant swing and then he slid down a rope in a way that——”

“Look, there goes another building!” interrupted Henry, and the boys, racing for the bridge, forgot, for the time, to discuss Joe and his doings, in watching the progress of the fire, to which they were much nearer now. They could hear the crackle of the flames and the popping of small pieces of fireworks.

Charlie turned back to look at Joe. The young wizard, for such he later became, had waded out until he found himself getting beyond his depth, then he plunged into the water, fully clothed as he was, and began to swim.

Joe was a good swimmer, and he had on a light summer suit and tennis shoes, so he was not as hampered as otherwise he might have been. But swimming in a full suit was nothing for Joe. He had done it before in a camping contest, and he had plunged in once, in midwinter, in a heavy suit, to rescue a little girl from the icy stream.

Joe was a wonderful swimmer, though he could not yet do any fancy tricks. He was just doing the plain Australian crawl stroke, which puts one through the water in wonderfully good time. On and on he swam, gaining the other side, and was very close to the fire before his companions had reached the bridge. That was where Joe’s nerve and daring stood him in good stead.

In the beginning he had no particular object in getting to the fireworks fire in such a hurry. It was just curiosity on his part, as it was on the part of his companions. Then another thought came to Joe.

As he climbed up the bank on the other side, water dripping from every part of him, the youth thought:

“I wouldn’t be surprised but what somebody got hurt in this fire. It came so suddenly they can’t all have escaped. It isn’t going to be any easy job to put it out, either. They’ll need all the help they can get together. There go some of the railroad men to give a hand.”

Joe was out on level ground now, near the railroad tracks, and he utilized them as the shortest way to the fire. He looked back to see his chums who had crossed the bridge and were now laboriously racing onward. Their long run had tired them, whereas the swim Joe had taken had refreshed him, as the day was warm.

The shrill sound of the fire apparatus siren could now be heard, mingling with the whistle of the steamer, for the engineer, seeing the smoke and blaze from afar, and knowing the need, had started a fire under the boiler, ready for quick work when he should have reached the scene of the conflagration.

Joe joined the running, panting throng of men and boys that now came swarming from all directions to the fire. The crew of a freight train, drawn up at the Bedford station, had come over to do what they could, and the fire-fighting force of the factory itself was busy. They had a small steamer on the premises, and lines of hose were connected to the steam pump in the boiler room. Water was soon being poured on the blaze, and when the auto-apparatus and the old-fashioned steamer arrived, they, too, were put into service.

By this time Joe’s chums had joined him.

“You beat us to it,” panted Charlie.

“Sure I did!” exclaimed Joe. “Why didn’t you fellows take a chance in the creek?”

“We didn’t want to spoil our clothes,” said Charlie.

“That’s right. It didn’t improve mine any,” admitted the young wizard, as he looked down at his sodden garments. “I expect dad will ask me to step out to the woodhouse when I get home,” Joe said grimly. He called Mr. Blackford “dad,” and, as a matter of fact, up to the time he was eight years old Joe had not appreciated the fact that “the deacon,” as he was often called, was only his foster-parent. Joe had but a hazy idea of his real father and mother, and the change at his early age failed to impress him. Later he heard the real story, however.

“Yes, I guess I’ll get a talking to, anyhow,” he went on. “But I couldn’t wait to come over the bridge. Say, she’s going some! isn’t she?”

“That’s what!” commented Tom. “Look, there goes the big building!”

The main structure, which up to now had suffered neither from explosion nor from fire, was seen to be smoking on one side. Hoarse orders came from the fire chief to play streams on that in an effort to save it, and the fire-fighters drew closer.

“Anybody hurt, did you hear?” asked Charlie of Joe.

“No, but some had narrow escapes. A few of the girls had to jump, but it wasn’t far, for most of the buildings are only two stories high.”

This was true of all, in fact, save the main structure, where most of the fireworks were stored. That was four stories high, and constructed partly of brick. It was an old mill turned into a fireworks factory, the other structures being built around it.

“If that main building catches—good-night! I’m going to leave this spot!” said Henry.

“Yes, it will be healthier a bit farther on,” agreed Tom.

“Oh, look!” suddenly cried Harry. “There’s a man on the top floor of the store-house! Look!”

He pointed. The others followed the direction of his outstretched finger. They saw a small door open near the roof of the main building. It was a door with a projecting beam above it—a beam such as in barns and mills is used for hoisting bags of grain or bales of hay. And, for the moment, a man stood outlined in this small, open door.

Then, suddenly, the man was seen to crumple up and fall in a heap on the very edge of the opening. So close to the edge did he fall that there came a gasp of horror from the throng, for it looked for an instant as if he would topple out and fall to the ground below.

“Why—why, that’s the professor—Professor Rosello, who did the magic tricks last night!” cried Harry.

“So it is!” agreed Tom. They had recognized him in that brief instant. What he was doing on the top floor of the main building of the fireworks factory could only be guessed then.

“If he hadn’t fainted, or been overcome by smoke or flames, or whatever happened to him,” said Henry, “he might have slid down the rope and been saved. As it is now, he’s in danger.”

A rope dangled from the beam above the door to the ground below. It ran through a pulley, and was evidently used to hoist and lower materials into and out of the factory.

Joe Strong, with an exclamation, suddenly darted forward toward the building, which, in spite of the streams of water poured against it, was now on fire.

“What are you going to do?” cried Harry, reaching out his hand to hold back his chum.

“Get that man—the professor!” answered Joe.

“But you—you can’t do it!” protested Henry.

“Can’t I? You just watch me!” cried Joe, as he broke into a run. He was headed straight for the dangling rope that hung from the beam. It was right in front of the open door, where the motionless form of the magician lay.

Joe Strong was going to the rescue.

CHAPTER IV
JOE’S FEAT

There was so much going on—firemen and eager volunteers working at the hose and apparatus, railroad men and factory employees endeavoring to get out of the danger zone a car loaded with explosives, others removing from the factory and store-houses some of the powder, still others rushing here and there, uselessly shouting—there was so much of this sort of thing going on that, for a moment, no one noticed Joe Strong except his four chums.

But the lad had no sooner reached the foot of the dangling rope than others saw him, among them some firemen.

“Come back from there!” they shouted.

“Not just yet!” coolly answered Joe.

“What are you going to do?” a railroad man inquired.

“Get him!” replied Joe, briefly, as he pointed to the huddled figure lying in the low doorway up above.

“You can’t do it! That place is all on fire inside. It may go up any minute.”

“Well, I figure that I’ve got a minute to spare, and a minute is about all I want,” answered Joe calmly.

By this time he was going up the rope hand over hand, not an easy feat, but Joe seemed to make nothing of it. Now, if ever, he blessed the time he had spent in acrobatic work, in emulating the tricks of circus performers, his own mother included. Now, if ever, he was glad of his strong and supple muscles, his cool head and eyes that never faltered.

Up and up he went, hand over hand, climbing the rope like a veritable monkey, and with a skill that would have caused applause to break forth at any other than this critical time. As it was, there was a murmur of admiration for Joe’s coolness and daring. For it was a daring feat.

All this while the fighting of the fire was going on at other parts of the plant. There had been no loud explosions for some time, though small ones were constantly to be heard. And inside the factory’s flimsy buildings, most of which were in flames, could be heard the hissing and spluttering of various forms of pyrotechnics.

Up and up went Joe until in a very short time he swung in through the small door, and stood beside the prostrate man, whom some of the boys had recognized as Peter Crabb, otherwise known as Professor Rosello, the magician.

“He’s there!” cried Charlie Ford.

“Yes, Joe’ll get him down if there’s any way to do it!” chimed in Henry Blake.

“And if there isn’t a way, Joe will make one!” declared Tom Simpson.

Joe’s chums and others in the crowd could see the young wizard now bending over the huddled form of the professor. They saw Joe hauling up the rope to get at the free end which was on the ground.

Just then came a burst of flames and smoke from a window in the second story, directly past which Joe had climbed a moment before, and past which he must lower the unconscious form of the magician; for that, evidently, was his intention. Could it be done?

“He’ll never do it!” some one said.

“They’re both goners!” was the general comment.

“The place is all on fire inside. No chance to save it,” a fireman remarked. “We’d all better get back, for she’ll explode soon.”

“Come on down, Joe!” a voice cried. “Save yourself!”

Joe answered something. What it was no one could hear above the crackle of the flames and the puffing of the engines.

“Joe won’t come down without him,” said Henry Blake in a low voice.

“That’s what he won’t,” agreed Harry Martin.

But how was Joe to lower the man past that outburst of flame? Even a momentary passage through it would likely cause death if the man inhaled the fire. At best, he would be terribly burned.

But Joe Strong knew what he was doing. As the crowd watched, they saw him take off his soaking wet coat and trousers, wet from his swim across the creek. In another instant Joe had wrapped and twisted the sodden garments around the form of the magician, covering his head and face.

It was then the work of but an instant for Joe to fasten the rope about Professor Rosello. Joe was an expert in tying knots, and soon he swung the form, encased in wet garments, free of the window ledge. Down he lowered the man, swiftly, right through the outburst of flame. The rope was charred but not burned through.

“I knew Joe’d think of a way!” shouted Tom.

“But how’s he going to get down himself?” gasped Harry. “He can never do it!”

This was a puzzling question for his chum. Joe seemed doomed. But the lad himself never seemed to give this a thought. He stood in the open, upper doorway, attired in only his wet undergarments.

The flames, spurting out from the window below him, seemed fiercer than ever. The rope would never stand another trip past them. And now a series of small explosions in the building on the upper floor of which Joe stood indicated that that building soon would go in a burst of fire and smoke.

But Joe knew there was a life net carried on the auto fire engine, and he depended on this.

The chief of the Bedford department had not lost his head, and Joe had no sooner lowered the form of the magician to the ground when the quick mind of the chief was directed to saving the boy.

“Bring up that life net!” he shouted through his trumpet. It had been made ready some time before, but had not been used, since most of the employees had been rescued from the first floors.

“Stand here with it!” directed the chief, indicating a spot out in front of, and directly in line with, the open doorway in which Joe still stood. Now the smoke was swirling more thickly about the lad, and back of him could be seen dancing tongues of fire.

“Can you jump it, Joe?” called the chief through his trumpet

“All right! Hold her steady! I’m coming!” cried Joe, shrilly, above the crackle of the flames.

A fire department life net consists of a big iron ring, which can be folded in half upon itself. Around the circumference of the ring is woven a strong rope net, sagging toward the middle. Firemen stand in a circle about the iron ring, grasping it with their hands, and holding it as high as possible to allow for the recoiling impact of the falling body.

“Are you ready down there?” cried Joe.

“All ready!” answered the chief. “Brace yourselves now, men!”

Joe poised for an instant on the edge of the doorway. It was a sixty-foot jump, but he hesitated only an instant. With his hands to his sides, standing as straight as an arrow, his superb form beautifully outlined, clad as he was only in his underclothes, Joe jumped.

Straight as a plummet he came down, feet first, into the life net. It sagged with his weight, and the men holding it were jerked forward, but there were so many of them that the elasticity of the apparatus was preserved, and Joe bounced up like a rubber ball.

Another bounce and he turned a somersault, landing on the turf at one side.

A cheer went up from the rescuers. Joe had been saved, and he had saved the life of the magician in a thrilling manner. Another cheer rang out. But there was no time for more. There was still the fire to fight.

Joe’s chums gathered about him, eager to clasp his hand, to clap him on the back, to utter words of praise. But he had but one thought—or, rather, two.

“Is the professor all right?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes,” some one answered. “He’d only fainted. He’s all right now, and not burned a bit, thanks to your wet clothes.”

“Where are my clothes?” demanded Joe. “This isn’t exactly a bathing beach.”

“You can’t wear your things,” a fireman informed our hero. “They’re badly scorched. Here, wrap yourself in this blanket until you can get home,” and he extended one of the horse-coverings. Joe accepted it gratefully.

“Better get back from here,” another fireman advised. “This place is going, and it’s full of powder.”

The crowd, as well as Joe and his chums, took the hint.

But the main factory did not go up. The fire-fighters rallied in force around it, seeing that the other buildings were doomed, and the bigger part of the plant was saved. Luckily enough, too, as had it exploded the force would have been felt a long distance. The light and flimsy buildings burned quickly into ashes, and the explosions of fireworks grew less frequent. The material in the main building was spoiled by water, but that was better than having the fire reach it.