Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Own Company; Or, Barnstorming in the Middle West онлайн

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"How do you know?"

"You're simply an advance man, and——"

"Still, I have studied magic, and I am a good ventriloquist. For instance——"

"Bow-wow-wow!" barked a dog in the box office, and the ticket seller gave a great jump and scrambled onto his stool, drawing up his feet and looking down for the dog.

"Me-e-e-e-ow!"

A cat seemed to utter a wild yowl, following which the dog barked again, and then a terrible clamor of sounds came from the ticket office, as if the dog and cat were engaged in a fearful combat.

"Well, how in blazes did they ever get in there?" gasped Thad Burnham, making a rush for the side door and flinging it open. "Get out of here, you——"

He stopped and stared.

"Where are they?" he asked, bewildered.

"You tell!" burst from the ticket seller. "Thought they were right here under my feet."

The sounds had ceased.

Frank was standing behind Burnham, looking in at the door and laughing.

"Why don't you drive them out?" he asked.

"Why, they're not in here," answered the manager.

"Where do you suppose——"