Part 12 (1/2)

Mahdi clambered down the ridge, took up the baby, and, nursing it gently on one arm, came along the roof and down the sloping verandah, and lowered the son and heir of Kit See into Professor Thunder's arms amidst a storm of cheering such as had never been heard at w.a.n.garoo.

Nickie had predicted rightly. The w.a.n.garoo ”Guardian” next morning contained a thrilling account of the rescue, and in a leading article the editor pointed out that the humanitarian action of the Missing Link was proof that it approached nearer to the standard of man than any other known animal.

The enthusiasm provoked by Mahdi's action brought a tremendous rush of business. In fact, the attention excited threatened to lead to an exposure of Professor Thunder's daring imposition. Leading men wanted to interview Mahdi; a section of the people of w.a.n.garoo were even talking of having the Missing Link adorned with the Humane Society's medal, and another section prepared an illuminated address. Eventually the great showman left the town in something of a hurry to escape notoriety that promised to be dangerous, but he had done a record six-days' business, and was content.

”But how'd yeh beat the blanky gorilla?” asked the Living Skeleton on the morning after the rescue, as the Missing Link sat in his cage munching preserved fruits presented to him in abundance by the grateful Kit See.

”How do you think?” replied the intelligent animal. ”With an ammonia squirt, of course. When he came at me I squirted a dose into him that nearly killed him. I'm never without that little weapon, and I think, Matthew really think that we shall teach the gorilla proper respect for the superior animals before we have done with him. His desire to supplant me in the scheme of evolution is contrary to science, my boy, and a defiance of natural law, and must not be countenanced for a moment.”

CHAPTER XI.

THE DEFEAT OF DAN HEELEY.

AT Big Timber Professor Thunder's Museum of Marvels had run for several consecutive hours to satisfactory business, and was now well on its way to The Mills, where a great day was expected in view of some local festivity that meant a general holiday for the mill hands, and a bush carousal.

The caravan was drawn up for tea in the moonlit bush by Howlet's jinker track. A camp-fire blazed in the end of a b.u.t.t under a wide-branching gum. The Professor lay at a distance--for the night was warm--smoking on the crisp gra.s.s. The Living Skeleton crouched near, embracing his lean knees, staring into the fire, thinking fondly of his absent wife and family, a furtive tear lurking in the hollow of his cheek, for Matty Cann's absurd sentimentality made him a failure as a vagabond. Nickie fussed about gallantly, a.s.sisting Madame Marve and little Miss Thunder, who were busy spreading papers for the evening meal.

Professor Thunder had in Madame Marve a perfect wife for a showman. In addition to her value as the Egyptian Mystic, a wonder-worker, and teller of for tunes, she was chief cook and housekeeper for the whole caravan, but she had a flirtatious disposition, and the attentions Nicholas Crips offered in his unprofessional moments were received in a spirit of frivolous appreciation that disturbed the boss showman's complacency at times.

”Less of it. Less of it, my boy!” was his deep throated exhortation on such occasions.

All the members of the company had to take a hand in the hard graft and menial tasks incidental to the upkeep, management and movement of the show, and neither professional etiquette nor artistic pride could rescue Nicholas Crips from the vulgar task of preparing comestibles for the monkeys. But Madame was certainly the most useful artist on Professor Thunder's salary list, a doc.u.ment preserved with much pride, to be exhibited in bars and such public places for purposes of advertis.e.m.e.nt, and which represented the Egyptian Mystic as receiving 30 per week. On the salary list Bonypart, the Living Skeleton, was rated at 15 per week.

He actually received twenty-s.h.i.+llings and his keep.

”Professional usage, my boy--professional usage!” explained the celebrated entrepreneur when Matty Cann drew attention to the discrepancy. ”It's always done in the theatrical business. Bless you, you don't think we pay our Sarah Bernhardts, and our Cinquevallis, and our Paderewskis and our Peggy Prydes those enormous salaries that get into the papers. No; no, we couldn't do it, but we are content to let it be thought we do. It impresses our public, Bonypart--it impresses our public, my boy.”

Madame Marve produced bread, b.u.t.ter, pannikins, and the familiar necessities, brought forward the usual boiled leg of mutton on a lordly dish, large, fat and steaming like a laundry.

”Encore, encore!” cried the Professor.

”Hear, hear!” applauded Nickie, clapping vigorously. Matty Cann even ventured an expression of appreciation.

Madame Marve placed the mutton for the carver, and bowed low to the right and left, picked up an imaginary bouquet, and threw three kisses to hypothetical ”G.o.ds.”

”Come, come, Bony,” she said, patting the Living Skeleton on the back, ”buck up, man. If my old man couldn't think of me for ten minutes without snivelling, I'd have a divorce.”

Matty Cann smiled wanly. He had no great cause to ”buck up,” his share of the boiled leg would be very small indeed and entirely knuckle, the Professor holding that the knuckle end was not fat-producing.

”It's Jane's birthday this day week, an' little Mat'll be two year old the day after. I was wonderin' if I could get a day off t' visit me fam'ly?” said Matty.

”And fat up over-eating yourself,” said Thunder. ”Not much, my boy!”

Matty groaned. ”I give you me word I'd eat nothin' but s.h.i.+p's biscuit,”

he pleaded.

”Poor old Bony,” said the Egyptian Mystic. ”It's a pity your missus ain't a bit of a freak, so as we could have her along. Now, if she could eat fire we might find a place for her. Fire-eaters are very popular. I suppose she couldn't learn to eat fire, Bony?”

The Living Skeleton shook his head gloomily over his poor meal. ”I'm afraid she couldn't,” he said. ”Jane ain't got any gifts.”

The meal was finished, and the utensils were washed and restored to the caravan cupboard, a zinc-lined packing case. Professor Thunder was down on his back on the crisp gra.s.s again, smoking. He was feeling good, and opened his heart.