in one direction, suggesting a slight but constant breeze.
4) The writer may have conducted scientific experiments. This much Wild Boy guessed from a tiny burn mark in the corner, which was too small and precise to have been made by a flame. It could have been a coal spark, but why light a fire near an open window? He wouldn’t have considered experiments as the cause, had it not been for an intriguing coincidence. . . .
A flash of light dazzled Wild Boy. Down in the ring, a new act had begun. A man with a shabby leather bag stood beside a table that was cluttered with scientific objects — pairs of zinc and copper plates half submerged in glasses of golden fluid, silver wires strung between copper coils, glass cylinders mounted on wooden frames. He was a crooked old man with a monk’s ring of gray hair and round shaded spectacles perched on a wine-red nose.
Professor Henry Wollstonecraft.
This was the man, Wild Boy was was certain, for whom the letter was meant. It had been written to someone in disguise, and he suspected that was true of the Professor. He could tell the man had been wealthy once. His suits, now worn and crumpled, had been tailored for him and he wore an expensive-looking ring — gold with a raised letter
G
on its surface. Wild Boy wondered if that was an initial of the old scientist’s
real
name. . . .
He watched as the Professor performed tricks with a mysterious new phenomenon called
electricity.
Sparks crackled along the wires and shot into the air like white-hot fireworks, reflecting off his dark spectacle lenses. The tricks were incredible, but the Professor’s act entirely lacked showmanship. When the old man finally looked up, he seemed almost surprised to see an audience, and utterly confused as to what he might say to them.
By then they’d had enough anyway, and another chorus of boos filled the big top. Still without a word, the Professor packed up his bag and shuffled away through a fading haze of smoke.
Wild Boy set off again through the scaffold. If he could climb close, he could drop the letter in the Professor’s path as he left the ring. But just as he got near, his coat snagged on one of the beams. He turned to tear it free, but he was already too late. Professor Wollstonecraft passed through a gap in the tent wall and out into the night.
Wild Boy cursed. What now? Could he sneak to the Professor’s caravan and leave the letter there? It was risky — if he was caught, the circus crew would think he was stealing. But this was not the sort of letter that could go undelivered. He ripped his coat from the beam, leaped from the scaffold, and rushed through the exit.
It didn’t take long to find the Professor’s van. Because of the fire risk from his experiments, Wollstonecraft’s was the only caravan at the fair that was made entirely of metal — a rusty corrugated-iron box parked among the sprawl of prop carts and dressing wagons behind the big top.
Tingling with fear and excitement, Wild Boy crept closer. He heard someone trudging along the path from the big top, and he quickly hid again behind one of the carts. Peeking around the side, he was surprised to see that it was Mary Everett. Why had the ringmaster left her own show? She looked even angrier than usual. Leaning heavily on her crutch, she swore and banged a fist against one of the vans.
Every instinct told Wild Boy to run. But again he felt the page in his coat pocket. Someone was out to murder the Professor. He couldn’t just let it happen.
All he needed to do was to get into that van and drop this letter. Just a few seconds, that was all — how much trouble could that cause?
As soon as the ringmaster was gone, he darted across the path, up the caravan steps, and he was inside.
W ild Boy eased the door shut.
Moonlight streamed in silver shafts through joins in the caravan’s corrugated walls. Empty wine bottles littered the floor. The air was thick with the stench of booze.
He brought the letter from
4) The writer may have conducted scientific experiments. This much Wild Boy guessed from a tiny burn mark in the corner, which was too small and precise to have been made by a flame. It could have been a coal spark, but why light a fire near an open window? He wouldn’t have considered experiments as the cause, had it not been for an intriguing coincidence. . . .
A flash of light dazzled Wild Boy. Down in the ring, a new act had begun. A man with a shabby leather bag stood beside a table that was cluttered with scientific objects — pairs of zinc and copper plates half submerged in glasses of golden fluid, silver wires strung between copper coils, glass cylinders mounted on wooden frames. He was a crooked old man with a monk’s ring of gray hair and round shaded spectacles perched on a wine-red nose.
Professor Henry Wollstonecraft.
This was the man, Wild Boy was was certain, for whom the letter was meant. It had been written to someone in disguise, and he suspected that was true of the Professor. He could tell the man had been wealthy once. His suits, now worn and crumpled, had been tailored for him and he wore an expensive-looking ring — gold with a raised letter
G
on its surface. Wild Boy wondered if that was an initial of the old scientist’s
real
name. . . .
He watched as the Professor performed tricks with a mysterious new phenomenon called
electricity.
Sparks crackled along the wires and shot into the air like white-hot fireworks, reflecting off his dark spectacle lenses. The tricks were incredible, but the Professor’s act entirely lacked showmanship. When the old man finally looked up, he seemed almost surprised to see an audience, and utterly confused as to what he might say to them.
By then they’d had enough anyway, and another chorus of boos filled the big top. Still without a word, the Professor packed up his bag and shuffled away through a fading haze of smoke.
Wild Boy set off again through the scaffold. If he could climb close, he could drop the letter in the Professor’s path as he left the ring. But just as he got near, his coat snagged on one of the beams. He turned to tear it free, but he was already too late. Professor Wollstonecraft passed through a gap in the tent wall and out into the night.
Wild Boy cursed. What now? Could he sneak to the Professor’s caravan and leave the letter there? It was risky — if he was caught, the circus crew would think he was stealing. But this was not the sort of letter that could go undelivered. He ripped his coat from the beam, leaped from the scaffold, and rushed through the exit.
It didn’t take long to find the Professor’s van. Because of the fire risk from his experiments, Wollstonecraft’s was the only caravan at the fair that was made entirely of metal — a rusty corrugated-iron box parked among the sprawl of prop carts and dressing wagons behind the big top.
Tingling with fear and excitement, Wild Boy crept closer. He heard someone trudging along the path from the big top, and he quickly hid again behind one of the carts. Peeking around the side, he was surprised to see that it was Mary Everett. Why had the ringmaster left her own show? She looked even angrier than usual. Leaning heavily on her crutch, she swore and banged a fist against one of the vans.
Every instinct told Wild Boy to run. But again he felt the page in his coat pocket. Someone was out to murder the Professor. He couldn’t just let it happen.
All he needed to do was to get into that van and drop this letter. Just a few seconds, that was all — how much trouble could that cause?
As soon as the ringmaster was gone, he darted across the path, up the caravan steps, and he was inside.
W ild Boy eased the door shut.
Moonlight streamed in silver shafts through joins in the caravan’s corrugated walls. Empty wine bottles littered the floor. The air was thick with the stench of booze.
He brought the letter from
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