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day he had been puzzling over the mystery of the iron door. Could this be the answer? During the interval, when Gandini had retired to his dressing room to pack up the rest of his equipment, Sparrow crept over to the chest, which had been pushed into a corner, ready to be dismantled and taken away. Having seen how the trick had been done, he had a pretty good idea what he was looking for, and it did not take him long to find it. He was just lifting the lid when he heard an angry roar behind him.
    “Hey! What d’you think you’re doin’?” Gandini was so furious his face was livid. In fact, he was so angry he had quite forgotten he was supposed to be Italian, and was speaking in a broad north-country English accent.
    “I … nothin’. Nothin’. Honest,” Sparrow stammered, afraid of the angry magician and confused by his sudden change of nationality.
    “You’re messing wi’ my things!”
    “I’m sorry, Mr Gandini, sir. I ain’t done no harm.”
    “No harm? No harm? What’s that got to do wi’ it, you little tike?”
    “What’s going on here? Is this personage causing you annoyance, Signor Gandini?” It was the theatre manager, Mr Trump. He looked at Sparrow accusingly.
    “He was messing wi’ my stuff,” Gandini snarled. He swung back to Sparrow. “You never, never, touch a magician’s props. Don’t you know that’s the cardinal rule of this business?”
    “What’s that mean?” asked Sparrow.
    “It means a rule that must be obeyed,” Mr Trump snapped.
    “I… I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to… Only, you see…”
    The manager silenced him with a wave of his hand, and spoke to Gandini again. “Pray accept my most compunctious apologies,” he grovelled.
    “What sort of staff do you employ here?” Gandini demanded.
    “He’s regrettably inexperienced,” the manager continued. “He doesn’t know any better.”
    “Well it’s time he learnt,” Gandini spat. “I want him out of here!”
    “Yes. Of course.”
    “Now!”
    Mr Trump turned to Sparrow again. “You’re fired!”
    Sparrow was close to tears. “No. Please,” he begged. “I can explain. It’s important.”
    “Well?” The manager loomed over him. “It had better be good.”
    “You see, there’s this door, and…” Sparrow stopped as he realized he wasn’t supposed to say anything.
    “I’m waiting.”
    “Who put you up to this?” asked Gandini.
    “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”
    “I’ll bet it is,” Gandini snorted. He turned back to the manager. “The secrets are mine. And he was trying to steal them.”
    “No, I weren’t. Honest. Give me another chance. I won’t do it again, I promise.”
    “Get out of here,” the manager growled. “And don’t come back.”
    “Oh, please… Can’t I just stay and see Little Tich?”
    “No. And divest yourself of that garment before you depart.”
    Heartbroken, Sparrow slipped out of the call boy’s jacket and dragged himself to the door. His dreams were shattered. As he left, a hansom cab drew up outside the stage door and a figure hopped nimbly out. It was Little Tich. Sparrow watched as the tiny comedian paused to exchange greetings with Bert, before disappearing into the theatre. Then he turned away and trudged miserably home.

 

Trapped!
    Back at HQ, Sparrow flung himself down on his bed, weeping miserably. The only other Boy at home was Shiner, who was still upset by his encounter with Basher Brannigan and did not want to hear Sparrow’s troubles. After a few minutes, however, his curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn’t resist asking what was the matter.
    “Nothin’,” Sparrow replied, burying his face in his mattress so that Shiner wouldn’t see his tears.
    “Don’t look like nothin’ to me,” Shiner said, not unkindly.
    “Nothin’s the matter. I’m all right.”
    “What you cryin’ for, then?”
    “I ain’t,” Sparrow insisted, sniffing loudly.
    “And what you doin’ here?” Shiner went on. “I