At eleven o’clock that morning Jeanne found herself seated beside the blue-eyed, laughing Merry in the front row of chairs of a big, bare salesroom. Before them was a long, high platform. Back of the platform, piled to the ceiling, was an odd assortment of boxes, bales, bags, trunks and bundles, the week’s accumulation of articles lost or rejected in the offices of a great express company.
The place was half filled when they arrived. All the front seats were taken save two. From these, hats mysteriously disappeared as Merry approached. She nodded Jeanne to one chair and chose another for herself.
“Those men saved seats for us,” Jeanne whispered in surprise. “Do ladies always get front seats?”
“Never!” Merry shook her head vigorously. “Ladies are no good. They bid too high. After that they make a fuss because they’ve robbed themselves.”
“But you?”
“I’m no lady! Me?” The Irish girl drew herself up proudly. “I’m a buyer. They all know me, these men.
“Look, Weston!” She had turned to the man at her left. “This is Petite Jeanne. She’s going to buy, just one lot. You’ll lay off, won’t you?”
“Does she belong to the union?” The ruddy-faced German grinned.
“Sure,” Merry laughed back.
“All right, we’ll lay off, won’t we?” He turned to the man at his side.
“Certainly.” The one who spoke seemed as much out of place there as did Petite Jeanne. He was young and, in a way, handsome. His features were regular, his forehead high. But about his eyes was a look of dissatisfaction.
“His life is a story, an interesting story,” Jeanne told herself. “I’d love to read it.” To this little French girl the world was a stage indeed, and all men actors. She was to learn more of the ways of those who haunt auction sales ere the day was done.
Had some great artist come upon that scene, he would surely have hidden himself away behind boxes and bundles, to peer through some narrow crack and prepare a hasty sketch which must in time be developed into an immortal work of art. There they were, Jeanne and Merry, like two beings from another world; two glowing spots of color, one orange, one bright purple, against a dull tide of brown, gray and black. The scene about them was grim and sordid. It spoke of the cluttered stalls of Maxwell Street where the poor of the city quarrel over the rags that must serve them in lieu of garments, and of grim, stark tenements where men struggle in vain for warmth and bread.
There were deep lines in the faces of those who ranged themselves, tier on tier, behind the girls, waiting patiently for the show, which was a weekly auction, to begin. And yet there was to be seen in many a pair of eyes a glint of pleasurable anticipation.
“Look at them,” Merry whispered, allowing her glance to sweep the growing throng. “They are gamblers; gamblers all.”
“Gamblers!” Jeanne voiced her astonishment.
“They are. You shall see. And this is a gambling institution. The auctioneer will tell them they are gambling. Perhaps you will hear him say it. ‘It’s not what you can make, but what you stand to lose.’ He says that. And yet they bid.
“You will hear them very soon, bidding six dollars, seven, eight for three packages. What’s in the packages? They are wrapped tight. Not one of them can know. They bet their money that the packages will increase their meager pile of money.”
“And do they?”
“Very seldom. Oh, yes, sometimes there are fine new goods, silk stockings, dresses, shoes. They can’t all be bad.
“But then, too, you may pay real money for a worthless bundle of rags or a handful of broken dishes.
“So you see,” she added with a sigh, “it’s the call of the gambler that brings them here.”
“And you,” said Jeanne, “do you also gamble?”
“Very seldom. I buy only what I can see. To-day there are lamps, good ones, and not badly broken. I shall buy them. I can see two new traveling bags. If they are empty they will sell for very little.
“But if they are full—” She threw back her shoulders and smiled. “Then you shall see how they will bid. For in their dreams they see in those bags, lost in the express by other people, a fortune in watches, diamonds and silks.
“And what will they find? A few moth eaten garments, some old letters, a book or two, and some worthless trinkets. Did you ever pack your treasures in a traveling bag? Never.
“But when men are poor—” She sighed again. “They will gamble, for they have little to lose and always dream of gaining much. And after all, what is life without dreams?”
“Dreams! Ah, yes!” Jeanne answered. “And shall we not gamble a wee bit to-day?”
“Just a wee bit.” Merry squeezed her hand. “One small package for you and one for me.”
“Yes, yes, let’s do!” the little French girl whispered eagerly, “For this is my luckee day.”
The auctioneer, a large, bald man with a warming smile, climbed to the platform and announced the terms of the sale. “Goods,” he explained, “are sold as is. No complaints will be listened to. A deposit will be required with each purchase.”
“Ja! We know,” jeered one future purchaser. “If ve get hooked ve don’t kick. You get our money. It iss good money. So you don’t kick. All iss sveet and lovely. Ja!”
The crowd laughed. The auctioneer laughed with them. And well he could afford to, for it was he who always had the last laugh.
“Remember,” Weston, the ruddy-cheeked German, whispered in Merry’s ear, “seventy-five is union price.”
“I remember.” Merry turned her smiling eyes upon his. Those eyes had done much for her in the past. If she particularly wished a package, these, her friends of the “union,” refused to bid, and she bought it at her own price. The “union” was a union only in name. It was composed of a group of regular buyers who, meeting here and elsewhere, had themselves united in a bond of friendship.
This day, however, the union found itself greatly outnumbered by casual customers who on occasion bid high, and returned home later to curse the spirit of chance that for the moment had held them under its spell.
“Three packages!” shouted the auctioneer. “Three! How much apiece? How much for each one?”
“Quarter.”
“Half dollar.”
“Who goes seventy-five?”
“Seventy-five.”
“Dollar.”
“And a quarter.”
“Whew!” exclaimed Merry. “Watch them climb! Seventy-five is union price. How can we buy to-day?”
“Oh, but I still have money,” insisted Jeanne. “We must buy. I will pay. This is my luckee day.”
“There’s no luck if you break union rules. Wait.”
They did wait. Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half the sale went on. Merry bought two damaged lamps and a broken chair. These went for a song. But packages! How they soared!
Merry took to bidding union price at the very start. “Seventy-five!” she shouted again and again, but each time the throng behind went far above her.
“Pipe down!” Weston shouted back at them. “Give the little girl a chance!”
Not a chance did they give her.
So the day wore on. The pile behind the counter had dwindled very low when two modest sized packages, one with a foreign label on it, were put up.
“See!” hissed Jeanne in sudden excitement. “That one came from France. There are French words on the label. We must have it!”
“Sh! Be still!” Merry squeezed her hand.
Weston bid a quarter. Fisheim, a second member of the union, went to half a dollar.
“Seventy-five!” screamed Merry.
“Seventy-five, and sold!” shouted the auctioneer.
Merry thanked him with her laughing Irish eyes. She understood it all. She had been saving him breath by bidding high at the start. Now she was repaid.
“Di—did we get them?” the little French girl demanded breathlessly.
“We did. And now we go to the window. We must pay there. The sale will be over in ten minutes. Ten more, and we’ll march away with our precious parcels from the big grab-bag. Tad will come for the lamps and the chair to-morrow.”
“Mine’s heavy.” Jeanne gave a little skip of joy as they entered the elevator twenty minutes later.
“So’s mine.” Merry’s tone did not echo her companion’s enthusiasm. “Don’t expect too much, you know. Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed! That’s not in the Bible, but it should have been.
“Your package may be full of old books and mine loaded with bricks. Old books come often enough, and I’ve seen broken bricks in a package, too.”
“Bricks!” Jeanne voiced her amazement. “Why would anyone send broken bricks by express?”
“They wouldn’t. But, you see, these packages are sent in from express offices everywhere. Not all of the agents are honest. If an agent is about to send in a nice mantel clock, slightly damaged, what’s to hinder his taking it out and replacing it with broken bricks? No one will be the wiser. If you or I buy the package, we get hooked, that’s all.”
“Bricks!” Jeanne said in disgust. “But then, mine is not full of bricks. This is my luckee day!”
“Here!” Merry pulled her into the shadow of a stairway. “We’ll unwrap them here. No one will see us.”
If Petite Jeanne’s hands trembled as she tore away the paper wrappings with the strange foreign labels, her whole body trembled and she appeared about to sink to the ground as she took one look at that which was within.
She lifted the object half way out of its box, stared at it with bulging eyes as she murmured something like “Fire God.” Then, crowding the thing back as if it were alive and about to jump at her, she crammed paper down upon it and hastily glanced about her to see if any stranger might have observed her action. Seeing no one, she heaved a sigh of relief.
“Look!” Merry’s tone was joyous. “A bird! A bird carved from marble!”
“It’s a falcon.” Jeanne studied it critically. “A marble falcon. And how well it is done! You know falcons are like eagles and hawks, only they may be tamed and taught to hunt for you. There are many of them in Europe and England. The gypsies are very fond of them. Gypsies are not allowed to hunt in the forest preserves. But their birds. Oh, la, la! That is another matter.
“But what a pity!” she exclaimed. “His beak is broken!”
“Sure!” laughed Merry. “What do you expect for three greasy quarters? If he were whole, he’d be worth a whole double golden eagle.
“Perhaps the beak is here.” She began feeling about in the excelsior wrappings. “Yes, yes, here it is! How very fortunate! Now we shall see him all together again. Tad will fix that.
“We will not sell him, for all that,” she continued solemnly. “He shall be my very own. See! He is looking toward the clouds. He has a broken beak, yet he can look skyward. He shall be my inspiration. When all seems dark; when our money is spent and no one comes to our poor little shop to buy, then I shall look at my marble falcon and say:
“‘You are brave. Your beak is broken; yet you look toward the clouds.’”
“How wonderful!” Jeanne murmured. “Would that I, too, possessed a marble falcon with a broken beak.”
“But what didyoufind?” Merry put out a hand for Jeanne’s package.
“No, no!” The little French girl’s cheeks paled as she drew back! “Not here! I will show you. But please, not here.”
Petite Jeanne was strangely silent as they rattled homeward on an elevated train. Her actions, too, were strange. The mysterious package with its question-provoking foreign labels lay beside her on the seat. Once, as she appeared to waken from a trance-like state, she put out a hand to push the package far from her.
“As if it contained some hidden peril,” Merry told herself.
The next moment, as if afraid some one would take it from her, the little French girl was holding the package close to her side.
When they had gained the seclusion of her own small room, all was changed. She became vastly excited. Throwing off her wraps, she pulled down the shades, threw on a table lamp that gave forth a curious red glow; then, tearing the package open, she drew forth a curious figure done in some metal that resembled bronze. A bust it was, the head and shoulders of a man. And such a man! Such a long, twisted nose! Such protruding eyes! Such a leer as overspread his features!
“Oh!” exclaimed Merry. “How terrible!”
“Do you think so?” Petite Jeanne spoke as one in a trance.
She set the bronze figure in the light of the red lamp. There it appeared to take on the glow of fire, the popping eyes gleaming wickedly.
Petite Jeanne did not seem to mind this. She stood and stared at the thing until a look of dreamy rapture overspread her face. Then she spoke:
“This is the gypsy God of Fire. How often in hidden places, beside hedges and in the heart of dark forests I have danced before him the gypsy fire dance, the dance that brings health and happiness! How often I have longed to possess him! And now he is mine! Mine, for I have bought him. Bought him for three tiny quarters.
“Oh, my friend!” She threw her arms about the astonished Merry. “Truly you are my friend. See! See what you have brought me. The gypsy God of Fire.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Merry.
“No. And perhaps you never will,” the little French girl whispered. “It is a very deep enchantment.”
At that she led her friend on tiptoe to the door and kissed her good-bye.
“What a very strange girl!” Merry murmured as she made her way down the stairs. “And yet I like her. I—I love her. I truly do.”
It was with a light tread that Petite Jeanne’s nimble feet carried her up the seven flights of stairs leading to the studio of a young playwright named Angelo. It appeared incredible that this young Italian who tried to write plays and had known no success, and a white-haired wanderer who had danced his way from one small city to another across the country, could accomplish great things in mending her fortune and in setting her once more before the gleaming footlights of some great theatre. Yet so perfect was her faith in this, her lucky day, that nothing seemed too much to expect, even from so humble a beginning. For, you see, Petite Jeanne believed in miracles, in angels, fairies, goblins, ghosts and all the rest. She was French. And French people, you must know, are that way. For you surely have read how the great Joan of Arc, as a child, often spent many hours watching the fairies play beneath her favorite tree.
“It must be a terribly dingy place,” Florence Huyler, her companion and bodyguard, said in a low tone as they approached the final landing. “This is a fearfully old building and we are right beneath the eaves.”
She was right. They were beneath the eaves. She was mistaken, too; more mistaken than she could have guessed. The place they entered was large, but not dingy. It was far from that. Besides being an ambitious young writer, Angelo was an artist. He had taken this barn-like attic and had created here a small paradise.
Having attended a sale at which the stage settings of a defunct play were being sold, he had bid in at an astonishingly low sum all the pieces he desired. The result was surprising. While one end of his attic studio contained the accustomed desk and chair of a writer, the other end was equipped as a stage.
And what a charming stage it was! Angelo was a genius. With a brush and bright colors he had transformed the dingiest of drops, wings and stage furniture into a vision of life and beauty.
“Oh! Oh!” cried Jeanne as she entered the room. “Once more I am on the stage!”
With one wild fling she went floating like a golden butterfly across the narrow stage.
Catching the spirit of the moment, the aged actor, who had been sitting in the corner, sprang to his feet and joined her in an impromptu dance that was as unique as it was charming.
“Bravo! Bravo!” Angelo shouted, quite beside himself with joy. “That dance alone would make any play. But there shall be others. Many others.”
“And this,” exclaimed Petite Jeanne, breaking in upon his ecstasy to spring into a corner and return with something in her hand, “this is the gypsy dance to the God of Fire!”
Depositing some object on the floor, she deftly manipulated the lights and threw a single yellow gleam upon it.
“A gypsy god!” Florence murmured. There was a touch of awe in her voice, as, indeed, there might well be. This god was endowed with power to frighten and subdue. There was about his features something that was at the same time ugly and fascinating. In the yellow light he appeared to glow with hidden fire.
As the little French girl began to weave and sway through the snake-like motions of the gypsy fire dance, a silence fell as upon a first night when the curtain rises on a scene of extraordinary beauty.
Even in this humble setting the scene was gripping. Long after the girl had finished the dance and thrown herself upon the stage floor to lie there, head resting upon one bent elbow, as silent as the gypsy god, the hush still hung over the room.
No one spoke until the quaint words of this mysterious child of France rose once more like a tiny wisp of smoke from the center of the stage.
“This is the gypsy Fire God,” she chanted. “Years and years ago, many, many centuries before we were born, strange men and women with dark and burning eyes danced their fire dance in his honor, beneath the palm trees of India.
“This is the God of Fire. Other gods may come and go, but he must live on forever. He will not perish. None can destroy him. Fallen from some planet where fires burn eternal, he alone holds the secret of fire. Let him perish and all fire on earth will cease. Matches will not light. Wood and fire will not burn. The earth will grow cold, cold, cold!” She shuddered. And those who listened shuddered.
“The very fire at the center of the earth will burn low and go out. Then the earth will be covered with ice and snow. All living things must perish.
“He will not be destroyed!” She threw her arms out as if to protect this god of fiery enchantment.
Again there was silence.
“She does not believe that.” Florence voiced her skepticism.
“Who knows?” Angelo’s voice was tense. “And after all, it doesn’t matter. The thing is perfect. Can’t you see? It is perfect!” He sprang excitedly to his feet. “This shall be our first scene. The curtain shall rise just here and about this God of Fire we shall weave our play. And it shall be called ‘The Gypsy God of Fire.’”
Even as the young Italian spoke, there came a knock at the door. With a little cry of fear, Petite Jeanne threw a small Persian rug over her treasured god; then, as if prepared to hold her ground against all comers, she clenched her small fists and turned to face the door.
Noting this, Angelo approached the door with silent footsteps, opened it a crack and demanded in a hoarse whisper:
“Who’s there?”
“Only I, your friend, Swen,” came in a large round voice.
“Swen Swenson! The Swedish night hawk!” Angelo shouted, throwing the door wide and extending both hands in greeting: “Who could be more welcome at a time like this?”
“What time?”
The youth who asked this question as he entered was a near giant in stature. His head was crowned with a shock of yellow hair. His cheeks were as rosy as a country child’s. His blue eyes were wide and smiling.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Angelo with a flourish, “allow me to present the big Swede who will write the music for our immortal masterpiece!
“Perhaps—” His eyes circled the room. “Perhaps you believe that the Scandinavians are not musicians. You are mistaken. Only recall Jenny Lind and Ole Bull and Eduard Grieg!
“But here—” He stood on tiptoe to touch that shock of yellow hair. “Here shall rest the richest crown of all!”
“It may be so,” grumbled Swen, as a broad grin belied his assumed ill humor. “But if you don’t explain I’ll crown you with a chair.”
“Patience!” The young Italian held out a hand. “All must be done in proper form. One moment. I shall light the fire. The kettle shall simmer. Before the fire all will be confessed. And after this we shall lay the plot, and what a plot it will be!”
Removing a heavy wire screen, Angelo dropped on his knees before a broad fireplace. A match flickered and a yellow flame appeared. As if by magic, the place that a moment before had seemed a theatre became an artist’s retreat glowing with light and warmth. At the right of the fireplace, where real flames went roaring skyward, was a broad wooden seat. Here, amid many bright pillows, Petite Jeanne and Florence were soon enthroned. The young host and his companions threw themselves upon thick rugs before the fire.
The lights were put out. The yellow glow of flames playing upon Angelo’s dark face transformed him seemingly into quite another being.
“See!” Florence whispered. “He is like a god in ancient bronze.”
“But not so ancient as this.” With fingers that trembled Petite Jeanne placed the gypsy god on the very border of the flames.
The transformation that followed instantly was startling. Florence jumped from her place. The big, blonde musician sprang backward. Angelo stared with wide eyes. As for Dan Baker, he stared at the thing with the fascination of a child.
And Jeanne? She merely smiled. Many times, at the back of hedges in the dead of night, or hidden away in some black forest, she had seen this thing, had witnessed the transformation of something that appeared all metal into a being that seemed alive with savage, fantastic grandeur: the gypsy God of Fire.
Even as they stared, voiceless, intent, motionless, a sound startled them all—the rattling of a windowpane in the skylight several feet above their heads.
Instantly all eyes were on that window. Everyone there knew that it was a silent, star-lit night.
“It rattled!” Jeanne whispered.
“And there is no wind!” Florence answered low.
As they looked, a mellow glow overspread the window.
“Who—What is it?” Jeanne’s eyes were staring.
“That?” Angelo laughed a low laugh. “That is only the gleam of Lindbergh Light, the airplane beacon.”
“But does it always rattle the window?”
“Light? Never!”
“But this,” the young Italian added quickly, “this is nothing. Come! We are wasting time. To-night, by this fire, we shall lay the groundwork for such a light opera as has never been known before. You, Swen,” he turned to the big blonde, “you are to write the music. I shall write the play. And these, our friends, are to be the stars.”
“Beautiful dream!” Petite Jeanne murmured.
“A dream for a night. A reality forever!” The Italian youth flung his arms wide in the characteristic gesture that the little French girl loved to see.
“See!” he exclaimed as the fire died down to the orange glow of a sunset. “The ugly little god smiles. It is an omen of good.”
They looked, and indeed the curious thing from the heart of the earth or from some distant planet (who could tell which?) seemed to smile.
But again Petite Jeanne shuddered; for, at that precise moment the window sash rattled again, this time with an unmistakable bang.
“Come,” urged Angelo, “snap out of it. It’s only the wind. We’ll make a beginning.”
“Wait. Wait but one little minute!” the French girl pleaded. She pressed her hand over her throbbing heart.
“Now,” she murmured as she sank back among the cushions, “it is over.”
“Behold, then!” Angelo began in the grand manner. “You, Petite Jeanne, are, just as you were in France, a refugee. No mother; no father; only a dancing bear. The gypsies, good gypsies, the best in all France, have befriended you. From village to village you have danced your way across France. All France has come to know and love you.
“But now—” He paused for emphasis. “This is where our play shall begin, just here. Now your bear seems at the point of death. He lies in the shadows, out of sight. But the gypsies, gathered about the camp fire that burns before the gaily painted wagons, are conscious of his presence. They, too, are sad. Sad because they love you and your ponderous dancing companion; sad, as well, because no longer the coins will jingle at your feet when the dance of the bear is ended.
“The light of the fire dispels the dark shadows of night for but a short distance. At the edge of those shadows, unobserved by those about the camp fire, sits an old man. His hair is long. It curls at the ends. His battered hat is drawn low over a mellow, kindly face.
“That man—” He turned suddenly toward Dan Baker. “That man is no other than yourself, Dan. You, too, are a wanderer. Down the road a short distance is a small tent. Close by are two burros. You are an old time prospector. All over America, with pick and pan, you have wandered.
“Some one has told you that there is gold to be found in the hills of France. And here you are.”
“Here I am,” Dan Baker echoed.
“You have found no gold. You have found something better—a beautiful young lady in distress.”
The color in Petite Jeanne’s cheek deepened.
“The gypsies have given up hope. For them the bear is as good as dead.”
“But you—” He turned again to Jeanne. “You have not despaired. For, is there not still the Dance of Fire? Is not the gypsy God of Fire close beside you? And have not this dance and this god worked miracles in the past?”
The young Italian paused to prod the fire. As it blazed up the face of the gypsy god was illumined in a strange manner. His lips appeared to part. He seemed about to speak. Yet no sound was heard.
“See!” cried Petite Jeanne. “He approves! We shall succeed! Truly this is my luckee day!”
Once more Angelo held up a hand for silence. “So there,” he began again, “by the gypsy camp fire, with all your dark-faced companions gathered about you, and with the God of Fire smiling at you from the very heart of the flames, you dance the gypsy Dance of Fire.”
As if this were a cue, the little girl, half French, half gypsy, sprang to her feet and before the curious god, gleaming there at the edge of the flame, danced her weird dance as it had never been danced before.
“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted Swen.
“Bravo! Bravo!” they all echoed. “The play will be a great success even if there is nothing more than this.”
“There will be more—much more!” Angelo shouted joyously.
“As you dance,” he began again a moment later, when Petite Jeanne had settled back among her cushions, “an aged gypsy woman creeps from the shadows to whisper a word in the ear of the chief of the tribe. Word is passed round the circle. A great sadness falls over all. The Dance of Fire has failed. The dancing bear will dance no more. He is dead.
“At a glance the dancer learns all. The dance ended, she flings herself before the fire in an attitude of grief.
“Silence; the golden moon; the campfire; the bright painted wagons; and sorrow, such deep sorrow as only a gypsy knows.
“And then a curious thing happens. An old man, whose gray hair hangs down to his shoulders, comes dancing into the golden circle of light. As he enters the circle he exclaims:
“‘Why be sad? See! I am sent by the Fire God to fill the place of Tico, the bear. I shall be this beautiful one’s dancing partner.’
“The gypsies are surprised and, for the moment, amused. They ridicule him in true gypsy fashion.
“As he dances on and on, however, silence steals over the camp. They begin to realize that he is a marvelous dancer.
“He begins the gypsy dance to the harvest moon. Petite Jeanne springs to her feet and joins him. Her face is wreathed in smiles. She believes the God of Fire truly has sent this one to be her partner; else how could he dance so divinely?
“As they dance on about the fire, they are joined by others, many beautiful gypsy maidens, dressed in colorful gypsy fashion. This is our chorus. They will appear often, but this will be the beginning.”
Angelo paused for breath. The room went strangely silent. The fire had burned low. Still the God of Fire appeared to smile.
“When the dance is over,” he took up the thread of the story once more, “the mysterious dancer binds the bargain by presenting the chief with a double eagle, twenty dollars in gold. Then he vanishes into the shadows.
“Instantly it is murmured that this is some very rich American in disguise. For, as you must know, the French think all Americans are rich. And here, with the gypsies speculating in regard to the future, and Petite Jeanne gazing raptly at the gypsy god who has brought her such good fortune—
“See!” The young Italian prodded the fire vigorously. “See? He smiles! He approves!”
But this time Jeanne did not see, for once more the window above them had rattled. And this time, as the beacon cast its glow upon the glass, there appeared a shadow, the shadow of a man, the man who had without doubt been looking down upon them and upon the smiling gypsy god.
Both light and shadow were gone in an instant. Not, however, until the keen eyes of the little French girl had identified the one who had cast that shadow.
“At such a time and such a place!” she whispered to herself, as a shudder ran through her slight form. To her companions she said not a word.
“That’s as far as we go to-night.” Angelo rose from his place by the fire and dropped limply into a chair. Gone was the fire in his dark eyes. His spell of inspiration at an end, he desired only rest and peace.
“Miss Florence,” he passed a hand across his face, “the water in the kettle is steaming. Will you honor us by making tea? There’s black tea in the green can on the mantel and a lemon yonder on the table.”
Florence hastened to do her bit toward making the evening a complete success.
“I move we meet again to-morrow night. And here’s to success!” exclaimed Swen, holding his cup high as tea was poured.
“Second the motion!” There was a suspicious huskiness in Dan Baker’s tone. “Think of stirring hopes like these in an old man’s breast! Been twenty years since I dreamed of doing big time in a great city. And now I dream once more. We will succeed.”
“We must!” Angelo agreed fervently. “We must!
“Friends,” his tone took on its former vigor, “you see me here very comfortable indeed. Rugs, chairs, a fireplace, a stage—all very snug. All these were purchased with money received for one act plays written for the radio. That contract is ended; the money is nearly gone. Two more months and unless some fresh triumph comes along these,” he spread his arms wide, “all these must leave me.”
“But they will not.” Petite Jeanne gripped his arm impulsively. “They shall not. We will help you keep them. Yes! Yes! And you shall have much more that is truly beautiful. You shall see!”
Many times, as they journeyed homeward that night, Petite Jeanne cast apprehensive glances over her shoulder. More than once, as some object appeared to move in the darkness, she felt a great fear gripping at her heart, and had it not been for the presence of her staunch companion she would doubtless have gone fleeing into the night.
The cause of her fear, the gypsy god, was safely tucked away under her arm. This did not allay her fear. It only served to increase it, for had she not seen the shadow cast upon Angelo’s windowpane? And had she not recognized that shadow as belonging to the very gypsy who had pursued her in the darkness of that very morning?
“It is very strange about this gypsy god,” she said to Florence, as with a sigh of relief she sank into the depths of her own easy chair in their own little room. “One does not understand it at all. This god has been in the possession of the gypsy tribe of Bihari, my gypsy stepfather. As chief of the tribe he has watched over it for many years. Bihari is not in America. If he were I should know. Good news travels far in the wide world of the gypsies.
“And if he is not here, why is the God of Fire in this land? There can be but one answer. The tribe of Bihari would never part with so priceless a possession. It has been stolen and sent to America.”
“And then lost in the express.”
“You are quite right.”
“But who would steal it?”
“Who can say? Perhaps a gypsy who hates Bihari. There are many such. Perhaps only some sight-seeing Americans. There are some who would steal the Arch of Triumph in Paris as a souvenir if they could.”
“But is it so wonderful?” Florence’s tone was cold. Petite Jeanne had placed the strange object of their discussion upon the mantel. There, far from the glow of a fire, the thing seemed hideous, smoke-blackened, dead.
“Who can tell all?” Petite Jeanne’s voice trailed off into a weary silence.
When she spoke again it was as with the lips of a philosopher:
“Who can know all? The gypsies believe that the fire dance and this god give them strength and courage, that their sick are healed, that by these their fortunes are mended. There are those who have been to many schools and who should know much more than the poor, wandering gypsies, but they believe in even stranger things.
“I only know that this god, this God of Fire, is very old and that I believe in his power because I was taught to do so as a child.
“But the gypsies of America desire this god!”
She sprang suddenly to her feet and began pacing the floor.
“Why,” exclaimed Florence, “they can’t even know it is here!”
“One of them does. He saw it smiling in the fire to-night. I saw his shadow on the windowpane. He will tell others.”
“You saw him?”
“It could have been none other. I recognized him instantly. His coat, his curious hat, his profile, were all visible.
“But we must guard this god well. We must keep him in hiding.” She went to the door and locked it. “I must have him for our opera.”
“But you could have a model made of clay. You could use that on the stage. No one would know. Few stage properties are real.”
“No! No!” The little French girl held up hands in protest. “Never! I will dance only before the true God of Fire.”
“Then,” said Florence calmly, “you will run a great risk. Some of the gypsies will attend the play. They are fond of drama. This one you saw will see the god. He will have it at any cost.”
“It may be so,” said the little French girl, dropping into a chair and folding her slender hands. “But truly, my friend, there is no other course.”
“Well!” Florence sprang to her feet. “Since we are to have his Reverence, or his Highness—or how do you speak of a god?—we must find him a safe resting place. Where can we hide him?”
A careful scrutiny of their narrow quarters revealed no safe hiding place.
“Your trunk? My dresser drawer? Under the mattress?” Petite Jeanne sighed. “May as well set him up here in the middle of the floor.” She placed the figure on the polished pine floor.
“But see!” Florence leaped forward. “Some one has cut a hole in the floor. I wonder why?”
“Some dark secret’s hidden there,” the little French girl whispered.
Florence had spoken the truth. In the very center of the floor three boards had been cut through twice. The pieces between the cuts, each some ten inches long, had been rudely pried up by the aid of some instrument. Something had undoubtedly been done; then the boards had been pounded back in place.
“Here!” exclaimed Florence, reaching for a heavy iron poker that stood by the fireplace. “Let’s have a look.”
Her first attempts to pry up the boards were unsuccessful. The poker slipped, then bent. When Petite Jeanne supplemented her labors with a broken case knife their labors were rewarded. The short length of board sprang from its place.
Eagerly they pressed forward to look, and bumped their heads together doing so. Then they dropped back in their places with a merry laugh.
The hidden secret was no secret at all. The house, being a very old one, had been erected before the coming of electric lights. When installing the lights the electricians had found it necessary to open the floors of the upper rooms in order that they might install lights for the lower floors.
“Oh!” Florence sighed. “What a disappointment!”