CHAPTER VII.

JOHN HENRY GETS A SURPRISE.

The following day Bunch and I attended to the shipping of all the scenery and props and trick stuff, and we were two busy lads, believe me.

On Wednesday we tried all day to locate Skinski, but he avoided punishment until about four o’clock in the afternoon, when we finally flagged him and began to ask him questions.

“I’ve been busy since Monday,” he explained; “brokers and bankers and lawyers, and there are doings.  Say! you’re two of the dead gamest sports I ever bumped into, and no matter what happens I’m for you for keeps!”

“What’s the reason for the crab talk?” I asked sharply.  “Are you going to give us the sorry hand and bow yourself out after we have put up every mazooboe we possess?  What kind of a sour face are you pulling on us?”

“Oh! pinkies!” he came back.  “Did I say anything about quitting you?  Why, I wouldn’t give you guys a cold deal not for Morgan’s bank roll.  I only wanted to prepare you for certain big happenings in case there are real doings with that gold mine out in the Blue Hills.”

“Sush!” I laughed; “then it’s only the hasheesh.  But, Skinski, on the level, I do wish you’d quit smoking those No. 4’s; they’ll ruin your imagination.”

“Wait and see,” smirked Skinski.  “And, by the way, nephew Bunch, I met a certain old party this morning who thinks you are very hot fried parsnips!”

“You did,” Bunch came back, with a yawn.

“Yes,” replied Skinski; “and a nice old man, too, is Mr. William Grey.’

“Where the devil did you meet Mr. Grey?” Bunch inquired excitedly.

“Back, back up!” said Skinski quietly; “I didn’t disgrace my family.  Mr. Peter Grant introduced me to him as your Uncle and I made good.”

“You met Uncle Peter, too!” I asked in alarm.

“Surest thing you know,” said Skinski; “but, don’t worry.  The Jefferson family tree will never be blown down by any hot air from me, so rest easy.  Now, let’s get down to cases about our opening Thursday night.”

Bunch and I were both puzzled by Skinski’s peculiar line of talk, but we forgot it and completed all the details for the opening the next night.

It was after eight o’clock when I reached home, and Peaches met me at the door with the face lights on full.

“Now for the secret!” she chirped, as she dragged me into the diningroom.

“Make mine a small one,” I admonished; “I’ve had a busy day.”

“This is a cure for all your business worries,” she gurgled.  “Guess what, John!  We sail for Europe next Wednesday!”

“Poor Peaches!” I said sympathetically; “that’s what you get for drinking too much tea.”

“I mean it seriously, John!” she cried eagerly.  “Uncle Peter has booked passages on the Oceanic for the whole family, and he is going to pay all the expenses for a three months’ trip.”