ther soiled linen coat came forward, smiling.

"I won't shake hands with you, Mr. Strong," he said, "for I've been
dabbling in some vile-smelling stuff. But if you wait until I wash I'll
be right with you."

"All right," assented Joe. And then, as he caught sight of what seemed
to be a number of canceled bank checks on a table, he smilingly asked:
"Have you been paying your income tax?"

"Oh, no," answered the chemist with a laugh. "Those are just some
samples of paper sent in for me to test. An inventor is trying to get up
an acid-proof ink. I'm a sort of paper expert, among my other chemical
activities, and I'm putting these samples through a series of tests.
But you'll not be interested in them."

"I don't know but what I shall be," returned Joe, with sudden energy.
"Since you are a paper expert I may be able to set you another task
besides that of showing me the latest thing in fire-resisting liquids.
Yes, I may want your services in both lines."

"Well, I'm here to do business," said Mr. Waldon, smiling.

CHAPTER VIII

JOE EATS FIRE

The chemist led the way into a little office. This opened off from the
room in which was the apparatus, and where, as Joe had become more and
more keenly aware, there was a most unpleasant odor.

"I'll open the window, close the laboratory door, and you won't notice
it in a little while," said Mr. Waldon, as he observed Joe's nose
twitching. "I'm so used to it I don't mind, but you, coming in from the
fresh air--"

"It isn't exactly perfume," interrupted Joe, with a laugh. "But don't be
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.