CHAPTER IV.
JACK-IN-THE-BOX.
The box was a red box, about five feet square and eight feet high, with a pointed top. Jack was about five feet nine inches high, with a brown beard and mustache and dark hazel eyes, and might have been twenty-six years old, possibly older. When he was in the box, he wore a blue blouse and dark trousers and a small cloth cap. The only time I ever saw him away from the box was on Sundays, when he always came to the Presbyterian Church, and sat in pew No. 79. One of the great pillars that supported the gallery was planted in this pew, and spoiled nearly the whole of it; but there was a comfortable seat for one at the outer end, and Jack had that seat. The box had two small square windows on opposite sides. On another side was a door, with 248 over it. The fourth side was covered in summer with morning-glory vines, planted by Jack, and trained to run up on strings. A stove-pipe about as large as your arm stuck out at the top. When Jack looked out at one of his windows, he looked up the railroad; when he looked out at the other, he looked down the railroad; when he stepped out of his door, he stood beside the track, and on those occasions he generally had in his hand either a red flag or a red lantern.
Close beside the box rose a tall, heavy pole, with a cross-piece on the top and short iron rods stuck through it at intervals all the way up. A rope passed over pulleys in the ends of the cross-piece, and Jack used to hoist sometimes three white balls, sometimes two red balls, at night tying on white or red lanterns below the balls.
To us boys, Jack was a delightful character, in an enviable situation, but to older people he was a mystery. I remember one day I was walking with Father, when Mr. Briggs joined us, and as we came in sight of the box, Jack was rolling up his flag, a train having just gone by.
"What do you make of that young man?" said Mr. Briggs.
"I don't know what to make of him," said Father. "He is evidently not the sort of man they generally have in those positions. You can tell by his speech and manner, and his whole appearance, that he is an educated man and a gentleman."
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Briggs. "If you peep in at the window, you will see a shelf full of books. He seems to have taken this way to make a hermit of himself—not a bad way, either, in these modern times, when there are no uninhabited wilds to retire to, and when a little money income is absolutely necessary to existence."
"I should like to know his history," said Father.
"Either he has committed some crime—forgery, perhaps—and escaped," said Mr. Briggs, "or he has quarrelled with his family, or in some way been disappointed."
"I don't think it's for any crime," said Father; "his appearance forbids that."
"Still, you can't always tell," said Mr. Briggs. "I tried to make his acquaintance once, but did not succeed. I am told he repels all advances. Even the Presbyterian minister, whose church he attends, can't get at him."
"I understand he likes the boys, and makes their acquaintance," said Father.
We had now arrived at our gate, and Mr. Briggs said good evening, and passed on.
It was true that Jack-in-the-Box was partial to boys; in fact, nobody else could make his acquaintance. He liked to have us come and talk with him, but never wanted more than two or three to come at a time. Perhaps this was on account of the size of the box. We used to consult him on all sorts of occasions, and got a great many shrewd hints and useful bits of information from him.
The inside of the box was a romance to me. I never saw so many things in so small a space. In one corner was a stove about as large as a coffee-pot, and beside it a sheet-iron coal-box, not much larger. In another corner stood the red flag, when it was furled, and a hatchet. Behind the door, hung flat on the wall, was a large coil of rope. Overhead, on one side, was a shelf, nearly filled with tools and trinkets. On the opposite side—lower, but still over the window—was another shelf, filled with books. I took a special interest in this shelf, and studied the backs of the books so often, that I think I can give the title of every one, in their order. They were, beginning at the left hand, a Bible, "Essays of Elia," "Henry Esmond," "Life of Columbus," "Twice-told Tales," "Anatomy of Melancholy," "Modern Painters," "The Shadows of the Clouds," "The Middle Ages," "Undine and Sintram," "Tales of the Great St. Bernard," "Sordello," "Divina Commedia," "Sophoclis Tragoediæ," "Demosthenis Orationes," "Platonis Dialogi," "Q. Horatii Flacci Opera," "Robinson Crusoe," "Byron's Poems," and Shakespeare. I was so curious about them, that I copied off all the hard ones on a card, and, when I went home, tried to find out what they were.
Under the book-shelf, at one side of the window, fastened to the wall, was a little alarm-clock. Jack knew exactly what time every train would come along. As soon as one had passed, and he had rolled up his flag, he used to set the alarm so that it would go off two minutes before the next train was due. Then he could sit down with his book, and be sure of not forgetting his duty.
Jack generally sat in a sort of easy chair with one arm to it, on which a board was fastened in such a way as to make a little writing-desk. The space under the seat of the chair was boxed, with a little door on one side, and in there he kept his stationery.
Hardly a day passed that Jack did not have boy visitors. There were only two things about him that seemed singular to me. We could never find out his real name. He told us to call him simply Jack; whereupon Isaac Holman said the full name must be Jack-in-the-Box, and after that we always called him by the full name. The other queer thing was, that he was never known to read a newspaper. The boys sometimes brought one to him, but he always said he didn't care about it, and would not open it. Father and Mr. Briggs appeared to think it very strange that he should live in that box and attend to the flags and signals. To me it seemed the most delightful life imaginable, and Jack-in-the-Box was one of my heroes. I often thought that if I could choose my own station in life, my choice would be a flag-station on the railroad.
Phaeton adopted Ned's suggestion as to consulting Jack-in-the-Box about his invention, and we three went together to see him.
When we got there, the door of the box stood wide open; everything seemed to be in its place, but Jack had disappeared.
"Probably gone up the road, to flag an extra train," said Phaeton. "No, he hasn't, for there's his flag in its place in the corner."
"He can't have been murdered," said Ned, "or they would have robbed the box. Must be suicide. Perhaps we'd better take charge of his things."
"I wouldn't be in a hurry about that," said Phaeton.
"Or he may have been run over by a train that he didn't see," said Ned, getting excited, and examining the rails in search of blood-marks. "If he was trying to remember all that funny-looking Greek stuff in some of those books, I shouldn't think he would notice a train, or anything else. And we'll all have to sit on the coroner's jury. Poor Jack! I don't believe we can say the train was to blame, or make it pay damages. I think I should like to sit near the feet; for he had handsome feet and only wore number six boots. He was an awful good fellow, too. But that'll take us out of school one day, anyway."
"So you think there is no great loss without some small gain," said Phaeton.
"I didn't say so!" said Ned, a little offended at this plain interpretation of his last sentence. "I feel as badly as anybody about Jack's death. But, at any rate, they'll have to do something with his property. I suppose, if he had no relations—and I never heard of any—they'll give it to his best friends. I think I should like the alarm-clock, and the chair, and perhaps a few of the tools. What will you take?" turning to me.
"I think I should like to take his place, if anything," said I.
Ned took a look at the box.
"I tell you what it is," said he, "the prettiest design for a monument over Jack's grave would be a box just like that—all cut in marble, of course—with Jack's name and age on the door, and beside it a signal-pole struck by lightning and broken off in the middle, or something of that sort."
A slight noise, or else the allusion to the signal-pole, caused us to look up. There was Jack coming down, with an oil-can in his hand! He had been at the top oiling the pulleys, and had probably heard every word we said, for there was a quiet smile all over his face.
"Good morning, Jack," said Phaeton, who seldom lost his presence of mind.
"Good morning, boys. I'm glad to see you," said Jack.
As soon as Ned and I could recover from our abashment, we also said good morning.
"Is there anything I can do for you to-day?" said Jack, as he set away the oil-can, observing that Phaeton had the little frame and a small drawing in his hand.
"Yes, sir," said Phaeton. "I want to get your advice about a little invention that I've been making."
"It's a new kind of railroad," said Ned; "and we thought you'd be the one to know all about railroads. Beats these common railroads all to nothing. Why, three months after ours is introduced, and the public understand it, they'll have to take up this track and sell it for old iron."
| THE BOYS CONSULT JACK-IN-THE-BOX. |
Ned had thoroughly identified himself with the invention, and thought it was as much his as Phaeton's.
"But then," he added thoughtfully, "that would spoil your business, Jack. And we should be sorry to do that."
Jack smiled, and said it didn't matter; he wouldn't wish to let his private interests obstruct the march of improvement.
Phaeton explained the invention to Jack, illustrating it with a rubber-string stretched on the frame, just as he had explained it to us.
"I see," said Jack. "Quite a novel idea."
"We haven't made up our minds," said Ned, "what sort of depot we'll have. But it'll be either a big tank full of water, or an awful soft mattress."
"How is that?" said Jack.
"Why, you see," said Ned, "this railroad of ours is going to go like lightning. There's no trouble about its going."
"None whatever," said Jack.
"But it's going to stop rather sudden."
"How so?" said Jack.
"I mean the trains," said Ned. "That is, the cables. They're going to fetch up with a bang at the other end. At least, they would, if we hadn't thought of a way to prevent it. Because it wouldn't do to break the heads of all the passengers every time."
"No," said Jack. "That would be too much."
"Too much," said Ned. "And so you see the depot must be some sort of contrivance to let 'em off easy."
"Of course," said Jack.
"And the first thing anybody thinks of is a bowling-alley, and the pins flying every which way."
"Quite naturally," said Jack.
"And that makes you think of a soft mattress to stop them. But Fay thinks it would be better, on some accounts, to drop them into a big tank of water."
"I suppose in winter you would have the water warmed?" said Jack.
"Of course we should; though we hadn't thought of it before," said Ned.
"And that would give the passengers a ride and a bath, all for the price of one ticket," said Jack.
"Certainly; and you see that would be favorable to the poor," said Ned, willing to indulge in the joke.
"Exactly; a great boon to mankind," said Jack. "And I think it would not only make them cleaner, but more religious."
"How so?" said Ned.
"Well, I think every passenger would feel like saying his prayers, as the train, or cable, drew near the getting-off station."
Phaeton and I burst out laughing.
"I'm afraid you're only making fun of our invention," said Ned.
"Not I," said Jack. "I like to encourage the inventive faculty in boys."
"Well, then, tell us honestly," said Ned,—"where would you introduce it first? Would you go to New York, and build it under Broadway at once? Or would you go slow, and try it first in this town, on a rather small scale?"
"I think I'd go slow," said Jack.
"And where would be the best place to build it?"
"You'll have to survey the town," said Jack, "and find out where there is the most travel."
"We thought we'd dig the tunnel ourselves," said Ned, "and then give a mortgage on the tunnel, and raise the money to buy the cable."
"I see you have the true business idea," said Jack. "In that case, I think you'd better build it wherever you find the softest dirt."
"That's worth thinking about," said Ned. "And now, Jack, I'll tell you what 'tis. We don't want to throw you out of employment; and when our road's running, and this one stops, you shall have a good situation on ours. There won't be any signal stations, but you may be the train-despatcher—the one that chops off the cable, you know."
"Thank you," said Jack. "I'll think about it."
"It will probably be good pay," said Ned, "and it's certain to be lots of fun."
"Oh, there can be no doubt whatever about that," said Jack, drily.
"Good morning!"
"Good morning!"
"Jack-in-the-Box takes a deep interest in our invention," said Ned, in a low, confidential tone, as we walked away. "I can see that he thinks it's going to be a great success."
Phaeton burst out laughing.
"What are you laughing about?" said Ned.
"I am laughing to think how Jack-in-the-Box fooled you to the top of your bent."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the thing won't do at all; and he saw it wouldn't, as soon as he looked at it; but he thought he wouldn't say so. He just liked to hear you talk."
"Do you think so?" said Ned to me.
"I'm afraid it's true," said I.
"Well," said Ned, growing a little red in the face, "I don't care. It's no invention of mine, anyway. It was all your idea, Fay."
"Oh, was it?" said Phaeton. "When I heard you talk to Jack-in-the-Box about it, I began to think it was all yours."
"If I was going to make an invention," said Ned, "I'd make one that would work—something practical."
"All right," said Phaeton; "you're at liberty to do so if you wish. I should be glad if you would."
"Well, I will," said Ned. "I'll make one to beat yours all hollow."
Three or four days afterward, Ned came to me with a look on his face that showed he had something important in his mind.
"Can you go?" said he, almost in a whisper.
"That depends on where you're going," said I.
"To see Jack-in-the-Box," said he.
"Yes, I always like to go to the Box," said I. "But I've got to split these kindlings first."
"Oh, never mind your kindlings! You can split those any time. I've got a sure thing now; and if Jack says it's all right, I'll let you go partnership."
Of course, this was more important than any paltry consideration of lighting the fires next morning; so I threw down the hatchet, and we started.
"I think we'd better go by the postern," said I.
Postern was a word we had found frequently used in "The Haunted Castle;" and we had looked out its meaning in the dictionary. Whenever we thought it desirable to get away from the house without being seen,—as, for instance, when we were leaving kindlings unsplit,—we climbed over the back fence, and called it "going by the postern."
"All right," said Ned, for in these things he was a wise boy, and a word to him was sufficient.
"What is it?" said I, as soon as we were fairly out of sight of the house. "Tell me all about it."
"Wait till we get to Jack's," said he.
"Has your Aunt Mercy given you money to make a muddle of it?" said I.
"That troubles me a little—that fifteen dollars," said Ned. "You see, we got it honestly; we thought Fay's invention was going to be a great thing, and we must have money to start. But now, if Aunt Mercy knew it was a failure, it would look to her very much as if we had swindled her."
"Not if you gave her back the money," said I.
"But I don't exactly like to do that," said Ned. "It's always a good thing to have a little money. And, besides, she'd lose faith in me, and think I couldn't invent anything. And next time, when we had really made a good thing, she'd think it was only another failure, and wouldn't furnish the money. That's one reason why I made this invention that I have in my pocket now. We can use the money on this, and tell Aunt Mercy we changed off from the Underground Railroad to a better thing."
"How do you do to-day, Jack?"
"Pretty well, thank you! How are you? Come in, boys; I'm glad to see you."
"Would you be willing to look at another invention for us?"
"Certainly; with the greatest pleasure."
"I hope it will turn out to be better than the other—that is, more practical," said Ned. "But you see, Jack, that was our first invention, and I suppose we can only improve by practice."
"That is about the only way," said Jack. "What is your second invention?"
Ned drew a bit of paper from his pocket.
"The other day," said he, "I heard Father reading a piece in the newspaper about a church that was struck by lightning, although it had a lightning-rod. The reason was, that the rod was broken apart at one place, and nobody had noticed it, or if they had, they didn't take the trouble to fix it. People are always careless about those things. And so they lost their church. Father says there are a good many things that spoil lightning-rods. He says, if there's rust in the joints they won't work."
"That's true," said Jack.
"Well, then, all this set me to thinking whether I couldn't invent a lightning-rod that would be a sure thing. And here you have it," said Ned, as he unfolded his paper.
Jack looked at it.
| NED'S INVENTION. |
"I don't understand it," said he, "you'll have to explain."
"Of course you don't," said Ned. "I will explain."
Jack said he was all attention.
"What does fire do to ice?" said Ned, taking on the tone of a school-master.
"Melts it," said Jack.
"Right," said Ned. "And when ice is melted, it becomes what?"
"Water," said Jack.
"Right again!" said Ned. "And water does what to fire?"
"Puts it out," said Jack.
"Exactly so," said Ned. "And there you have it—action and reaction. That's the principle."
I think Ned borrowed his style of explanation not so much from the school-master as from a young man who appeared in the streets one day, selling a sort of stuff to clean the teeth, calling a crowd around him, and trying it on the teeth of one or two boys.
"That's all true," said Jack; "but how do you apply it to lightning-rods?"
"Here is a picture," said Ned, "of a house with a rod on it. The family think it's all right, and don't feel afraid when it thunders. But that rod may be broken somewhere, or may be rusted in the joints, and they not know it. What then? We simply fasten a large ball of ice—marked I in the illustration—to the rod at R—freeze it on tight. You see it isn't likely there will be any break, or any rusty joint, between the point of the rod and the ball."
"Not likely," said Jack.
"But there may be one lower down."
"There may be," said Jack; "though there couldn't be one higher down."
Ned was too intent on his invention to notice this criticism on his expression.
"We'll say a thunder-storm comes up," said he. "The lightning strikes this rod. What then? In an instant, in the flash of an eye, the lightning melts that ball of ice—it becomes water—in another instant that water puts out the lightning—and the family are safe!"
"It will if there's enough of it," said Jack.
"Oh, well," said Ned, "if there should happen to be a little lightning left over, that wasn't put out, why, you see, as lightning-rods are generally in good order, it would probably be carried off in the usual manner, without doing any harm."
Jack sat with the paper in his hand, and looked at it in silence, as if he were spell-bound.
"What do you think of it?" said Ned.
"I think it's a work of genius," said Jack.
"I'm glad you think so," said Ned.
"And yet," said Jack, "some things that exhibit great genius, don't work well in practice."
"Certainly!" said Ned. "That was the way with Fay's Underground Railroad."
Jack smiled, and nodded.
"And now," continued Ned, "how would you go to work to introduce it? You wouldn't like to take it and introduce it to the public yourself, would you?—on shares, you know,—you take half of the profits, and we half."
Jack said his business engagements wouldn't permit him to go into it at present.
"Then we must manage it ourselves. Where would you advise us to put it first?"
"On a tall hickory-tree in Burke's woods," said Jack.
"Why so?" said Ned.
"Because the great trouble's going to be with the lightning that's left over. You don't know what that may do."
"I'm afraid the invention doesn't look practical to you," said Ned.
Before Jack could answer, Isaac Holman appeared at the door of the box, with a Latin grammar under his arm. At that time of day, there was an interval of an hour and a half when no train passed, and Isaac had arranged to come and take of Jack a daily lesson in Latin.
"I see it's time for your school to begin; we'll finish talking about this some other day," said Ned, as he hastily thrust the paper into his pocket. For he didn't want Isaac (nor anybody else, I guess) to know about it.
"Don't hurry yourself; I can wait awhile," said Isaac.
"To-morrow will do as well for us," said Ned.
"Totus dexter!—all right!" said Isaac, as we left the box, and made room for him to enter.
Isaac had been studying the language only a fortnight, but was fond of using Latin expressions in talking to the boys. Yet he was very considerate about it, and always gave an immediate translation, as in the sentence just quoted.
As Ned and I walked away, I was the first to speak.
"Ned, I have an idea! That ball of ice would only stay on in winter."
"I suppose so," said Ned, a little gloomily.
"And nearly all the thunder-storms are in summer," said I.
"I'm afraid they are," said Ned. "And this invention isn't worth a cent. It's not any better than Fay's." And he tore up the paper, and threw the pieces into the gutter.
"Then what will you do with the fifteen dollars?" said I, after another pause.
"That's a thing we must think about," said he. "But here comes Jimmy the Rhymer. I wonder if he has anything new to-day."