uneasy on my account. I can stand it."

However, he was glad when the fresh air came in through the window. The
chemist washed his hands and then sat down at a desk, inviting Joe to
draw up his chair.

"Now, what can I do for you?" asked Mr. Waldon. "Is it fire or paper?"

"Well, since I know pretty well what I want to ask you in the matter of
fire," replied Joe, "and since I've got a puzzling paper problem here,
suppose we tackle the hardest first, and come to the known, and easier,
trick later."

"Just as you say," assented Mr. Waldon. "What's your paper problem?"

Joe's answer was to take from the valise several hundreds of the circus
tickets. They were the kind sold for fifty cents, or perhaps more in
these days of the war tax. They entitle the holder to a seat on what, at
a baseball game, would be called the "bleachers." In other words they
were not reserved-seat coupons.

However, these tickets were not the one-time blue or red pieces of stiff
pasteboard, bearing the name of the circus and the words "ADMIT ONE,"
which were formerly sold at the gilded wagon. These were handed in at
the main entrance, and the tickets were used over and over again.
Sometimes the blue ones sold for fifty cents, and a kind selling for
seventy-five cents entitled the purchaser to a seat with a folding back
to it, though it was not reserved.

But Joe had instituted some changes when he became one of the circus