Chapter II: In the Calliope Tent

"I don't like it, pard, and you can bet your moccasins on that," said Joe McGlory.

"There are a whole lot of things about this business I don't fancy," returned Motor Matt; "but we're under contract, Joe, and Boss Burton says he'll give us an extra fifty a week if we do the trick."

"But the girl! What's her notion about it? Hanging to a trapeze under the aëroplane isn't a stunt to be sneezed at."

"She's anxious to do the trick. She'll get fifty dollars a week for it, and the money looks good to her."

"There's the danger, pard. Her neck's worth more than fifty plunks a week."

"She's a little brick, that Haidee--pure grit. I'll see that she's not placed in much danger."

"You'll have your hands full looking after yourself and the aëroplane. Sufferin' whirligigs! You know how hard it is to manage the _Comet_ when there's a weight suspended beneath."

"I can do it," declared Matt.

"Of course you can do, old socks--you can do anything when you set your mind to it. But, tell me this, what has that old elephant driver, Ben Ali, got to do with Haidee? Ben Ali's a Hindoo, and Haidee is almost as white as an American girl."

"Ben Ali's her uncle, Joe. Haidee's mother was Ben Ali's sister, and Haidee's father was an English officer living in Bombay. The girl told me all this yesterday at the time she begged me to do what Boss Burton wanted and let her trail the _Comet_ aloft on the trapeze."

"Funny combination," muttered Joe.

McGlory was in his overclothes, and had just finished getting the aëroplane ready for the parade. The "animal top"--that is, the menagerie tent--had been hoisted, and the small canvas lean-to that housed the steam calliope had been put in place alongside. The calliope was not in the lean-to, but was out on the grounds, being put in shape for the parade.

Matt and Joe usually came to the calliope tent to make themselves ready for the street procession. They, together with Ping, had been three weeks with the Big Consolidated, Matt making ascensions in the aëroplane twice daily, following the parade and just before the evening performance--wind and weather permitting. So proficient had Matt become in handling the flying machine that nothing short of a stiff gale or a hard rain kept him from carrying out his engagements for a double exhibition each day.

The aëroplane had caught the popular fancy, and had proved the biggest kind of a card for Boss Burton, proprietor of the show. Under its own motive power, the machine formed a star feature of the parade, traveling slowly on the bicycle wheels which were necessary in giving it a start when flights were made.

From tip to tip, the wings of the aëroplane measured more than thirty feet. Of course it could not travel in the parade with such a stretch of surface across the streets, so Matt had arranged the bicycle wheels in such a manner that the _Comet_ moved sideways in the procession, the king of the motor boys, his cowboy pard, and his Chinese comrade occupying positions in the seats on the lower wing.

When Matt and his friends first joined the outfit, Boss Burton had supplied them with bespangled apparel, which, if they had worn it, would, according to McGlory, have made them "a holy show."

Matt and McGlory balked at the glittering costumes, but Ping had hung to his beadwork and gilt trimmings with a fierce determination there was no shaking.

McGlory compromised with Burton by getting into a swell cowboy rig, but for Matt there was no such thing as compromise. This engagement with the show was purely a business proposition, and he refused to make a spectacle out of himself. He looked well, too, in his unostentatious blue cap and clothes, and was given many a cheer as the aëroplane pitched and shivered along in the procession.

Boss Burton was a shrewd manager, and it was said that he lay awake nights while section two of the show train was making its jumps between stands, thinking up new acts that would thrill the patrons of the Big Consolidated. His last idea was to hitch a trapeze to the bottom of the aëroplane, and have Haidee, Ben Ali's pretty niece, perform on the flying bar while Matt was manoeuvring the _Comet_ over the show grounds.

It was this new wrinkle that had drawn objections from McGlory when he and Matt had retired to the calliope tent to make ready for the parade.

About all Matt had to do to get ready was to wash and brush himself. McGlory, on the other hand, had to get into a blue shirt, corduroy trousers, "chaps," tight, high-heeled boots, and a broad-brimmed sombrero.

"What's become of Ping?" asked Matt, stepping to the tent flap and looking off over the busy grounds.

It would be an hour before the parade could start, and the bright sun glowed over a scene of feverish activity. The side-show tents, the stable tents, and cook tent were already up. A small army of men was working on the circus "top," and the rhythmical thump of mauls on tent stakes could be heard on every hand. Horses in two, four, six, and eight-horse teams were moving about; band wagons, cages, and chariots were being dusted and cleaned; the painted banners in front of the side-show were being laced to their guys; the candy "butchers" were getting their places in readiness, and throughout the various occupations of the men ran an orderly disorder, everywhere noticeable.

But Matt could see nothing of Ping, and he turned away to where McGlory, his foot on an overturned bucket, was buckling a big-roweled Mexican spur to his heel.

"Ping is always promptness itself in getting into his tinsel frills and furbelows," remarked Matt, "and I can't understand what's keeping the boy so late this morning."

"He's been put on the steam calliope, pard," laughed McGlory, dropping his foot from the bucket and stamping until the rowel jingled. "Little Squinch-eye seems to have fallen in love with that bunch of steam whistles. He tried to play 'Yankee Doodle' on the pipes, in Indianapolis, and had almost stampeded the elephants before the calliope man could choke him off. Sufferin' jangles, pard, you never heard such a sound."

Before Matt could make any response, a soft voice called from outside:

"Motor Matt! Can I come in a minute?"

"Sure," replied Matt heartily.

A lithe, graceful form, in velvet and spangles, leaped lightly through the opening.

"Haidee!" exclaimed Matt, staring.

The girl bowed laughingly and threw a kiss, just as she was in the habit of doing after her trapeze work in the "big top."

"Yes, friends," she answered; "Haidee, the Flying Marvel, who is to do a turn on Motor Matt's flying machine just before the doors open. I am also to ride on the top wing of the _Comet_ during the parade. Will I do?"

Lifting her arms, she pirouetted around for the observation of the boys, then paused and smiled bewitchingly.

"Do?" cried McGlory. "Why, sis, you'll be the hit of the piece. All I hope"--and McGlory's face went rather long--"is that you and Matt come through your trip in the air without any trouble."

"I'm not afraid!" declared Haidee.

"No more you're not, sis. If you were riding on the lower wing with Matt the whole game would be different; but you're to hang under the machine, and there'll be more pitching and plunging than if you were aboard a bucking bronk. Hang on, that's all, and don't try to hang by your heels."

"I'll get an extra fifty dollars a week!" cried the girl.

It was plain to be seen that she placed great store on that "fifty dollars a week."

"What does your uncle, Ben Ali, think of it, Haidee?" asked Matt.

A barely perceptible frown crossed the girl's face. What was passing in her mind? Whatever her thoughts were, they found no echo in her answer.

"Uncle Ben is glad to have me do it," and Haidee retreated toward the door.

"Have you seen Ping, Haidee?" inquired Matt.

"When I saw him last," was the response, "he was walking toward the river with a couple of buckets. I'll be going, now. I'll see you again when the parade starts. That trapeze act on the aëroplane will make a great hit, don't you think?"

"It ought to," said Matt.

The girl vanished.

"I'll walk over to the steam music box," remarked McGlory, "and see if I can spot our pigtail friend."

"All right," returned Matt, dropping down on an overturned bucket and pulling a pencil and memorandum book from his pocket.

Before he could begin to figure, he heard a voice addressing McGlory at the tent door--and it was a voice that brought him up rigidly erect and staring.

"Say, misder, iss dis der shteam cantalope tent?"

McGlory laughed.

"Well, yes, Dutchy, you've made a bull's-eye first clatter. Here's where they keep the 'cantalope.' What's the matter with you? Look like you'd gone in swimming and forgotten to take off your clothes."

"I tropped in der rifer mit meinseluf, und id vas vetter as I t'ought. Say, vonce, iss Modor Matt aroundt der blace?"

"He's inside, and---- Sufferin' whirlwinds, but you're in a hurry!"

A bedraggled form, with a dripping bundle in one hand and a stick in the other, hurled itself through the opening with a yell.

"Matt! Mein olt pard, Matt!"

The next instant Carl Pretzel had rushed forward and twined his water-soaked arms about the king of the motor boys. The Dutchman's delight was of the frantic kind, and he gurgled and whooped, and blubbered, and wrestled with Matt in a life-and-death grip.

McGlory, in amazement, watched from the entrance.

"Carl!" exclaimed Matt. "By all that's good, if it isn't Carl! Great spark plugs, old chap, where did you drop from?"

"Ach, from novere und eferyvere. Vat a habbiness! I peen so dickled mit meinseluf I feel like I vas going to pust! My olt raggie, Matt, vat I ain'd seen alreddy for a t'ousant years!"

Just then there was a rush behind McGlory, and some one nearly knocked him over getting into the tent.

"My workee fo' Motol Matt!" shrilled a high, angry voice. "Dutchy boy no workee!"

Ping was terribly hostile, but McGlory caught and held him.

Carl tore himself loose from Matt and would have rushed at Ping had he not been restrained.

"Looks like they'd both been in the river," remarked McGlory.

"What's the trouble here, boys?" asked Matt.