Phaeton Rogers: A Novel of Boy Life

by Rossiter Johnson

CHAPTER VIII.

A HORIZONTAL BALLOON-ASCENSION.

Phaeton had to wait three days for a fair wind, and in that time the secret—for we had tried to keep it quiet—leaked out among the boys.

It was Saturday, and everything seemed favorable. As Ned and I wanted to go up town in the forenoon, and Phaeton could not start the thing alone, he appointed two o'clock in the afternoon as the hour for the experiment.

On our way up town we met Isaac Holman.

"I'm going down to see your brother's new flying machine, or whatever it is," said he.

"'Tisn't going to start till two o'clock," said Ned.

"Totus dexter!—all right! I'll be around at that hour," said Holman.

Phaeton gave his apparatus a thorough inspection, newly greased the wheels, tested every string about the kites, and made sure that all was in perfect order.

Exactly at two o'clock, he took a strong stake and a heavy mallet, walked out into the street, and, amid a babel of questions from about twenty boys, who had gradually gathered there, drove the stake exactly in the middle of the road, leaving it a foot and a half out of the ground. He answered none of the questions, and, in fact, did not open his lips, except to return the greeting of Holman, who sat on the bowlder by the horse-gate, and was the only one that asked nothing.

I saw Monkey Roe hanging on the outskirts of the crowd. His name was James Montalembert Roe; but he was never called anything but Monkey Roe, and he seemed to like it just as well. The moment I saw him, I began to fear mischief. He was a thoroughly good-natured fellow, but was always plotting some new sort of fun, and was as full of invention, though in a very different way, as Phaeton himself.

When Phaeton had returned and put away his mallet, we all took hold of the car and ran it out into the street, where Phaeton fastened a short rope to the hook at the back, and tied the other end firmly to the stake.

Then I stood by the car, as a sort of guard, while he and Ned brought out the kites, one at a time, and got them up. When each had risen to the full height of the string, which was pretty long,—and they were the best-behaved kites I ever saw,—Phaeton tied the string to one of the hooks on the front of the car.

When all three were harnessed up, they lifted the fore-wheels from the ground.

This work used up considerable time, and while it was going on, the crowd about us was increasing by the addition of Dublin boys, who kept coming, singly or in twos and threes, and were distinguishable by the fact that they were all barefooted, without jackets, and had their trousers supported by one suspender buckled around the waist like a belt.

It seemed evident that somebody had told them about the horizontal balloon-ascension, for they did not come as if by accident, but as if by appointment, and made straight for the car, which they inspected with a great deal of curiosity.

Phaeton brought out four shot-bags filled with sand, and placed them in a row in the front of the car.

Then he brought out a rope five or six yards long, with a small balloon-anchor fastened to it. A balloon-anchor is made of three iron hooks placed back to back, so that the points project in three different directions, and the three backs or shanks welded together into one stem, which ends in a ring, through which the rope is tied.

Phaeton tied the end of the anchor-rope to the hook on the back end of his car, coiled it up in one corner of the box, and laid the anchor on the coil. His calculation was, that when he threw it out on the road it would catch a little here and there in the ground, as the hooks dragged over the surface, making the car go more slowly, till after a while it would take a firm hold of something and bring him to a full stop.

Phaeton also brought out a small American flag, on a light staff, and stuck it up in a place made for it, on one of the back corners of the car.

The kites were now tugging away at the car, with a steady and strong pull. The arrangement was, that when Phaeton was seated (on a light board laid across the top of the car) with the steering handles in his grasp, and all was ready, he would give the word, and I was to draw a sharp knife across the rope that held the car to the stake.

All now was ready. Ned, who had gone down the road a short distance, to see if any teams were coming, signalled that the coast was clear, and Phaeton stepped into the car.

"I say," said one of the Dublin boys, "why don't you put up the stake before we start?"

"The stake is all right," said Phaeton, just glancing over his shoulder at it.

"Who's holding it?" said the Dublin boy.

"Don't you see, the ground is holding it?" said Phaeton, arranging the sand-bags.

"Oh, don't try to get out of it in that way," said the Dublin boy.

"I don't understand you," said Phaeton. "What do you mean?"

"Didn't you say," said the Dublin boy, "you'd give a dollar to any boy that could beat your machine in a mile run?"

"No," said Phaeton. "I have never said anything of the sort—nor thought of it. Who told you so?"

"Lukey Finnerty."

"And who told Lukey Finnerty?"

"Berny Rourke."

"And who told Berny Rourke?"

"Teddy Dwyer."

"And who told Teddy Dwyer?"

"Owney Geoghegan" (pronounced Gewgan).

"And who told Owney Geoghegan?"

"Patsy Rafferty."

"And who told Patsy Rafferty?"

"Oh, never mind who told me!" broke in another Dublin boy, who, it seems, was Patsy Rafferty. "The question is, are you going to put up the money?"

"I never offered to put up any," said Phaeton. "And I haven't any with me, just now, to put up."

"Then somebody's played us a trick," said Patsy.

"I'm sorry for that," said Phaeton.

"Ah, well, we don't mind—we'll run all the same," said Patsy.

"But I don't care to have you run," said Phaeton. "In fact, I'd rather you wouldn't."

"Well, we're all ready for it," said Patsy, giving his trousers a hitch, and tightening the suspender a little by giving another twist to the nail that fastened it in lieu of a buckle. "And I suppose the road's as free to us as 'tis to you?"

"Oh, certainly!" said Phaeton.

"If you haven't any money," spoke up another Dublin boy, "you might say you'll give a ride in your car to the fellow that beats it—just to lend a little interest to the race, you know."

Phaeton somewhat reluctantly said he would,—"although," he added, in an undertone, "if you can beat it, I don't see why you should want to ride in it."

Casting one more glance about, to see that all was ready, Phaeton told me to cut the rope and let him start. Partly because he spoke in a low tone, wishing to make as little excitement as possible, and partly because I was watching what I considered certain suspicious movements on the part of Monkey Roe, I did not hear or heed him.

"Littera lapsa!—let her slide!" roared out Holman, who saw that I had not understood.

With a quick, nervous stroke I drew the knife across the rope.

The machine started—at first with a little jerk, then with a slow rolling motion, gradually increasing in speed, until at the end of six or eight rods it was under rapid headway.

The Dublin boys at first stood still, looking on in gaping admiration at the wonder, till they suddenly remembered that they were there to race it, when they started off after it.

Our boys naturally followed them, as we couldn't see any more of the fun unless we kept up with it.

It was a pretty even race, and all was going on smoothly, when down the first cross-street came a crowd of women, apparently very much excited, many of them with sticks in their hands. The sight of our moving crowd seemed to frenzy them, and they increased their speed, but only arrived at the corner in time to fall in behind us.

At the same time, down the cross-road from the other direction came a drove of cattle, pelted, pounded, and hooted at by two men and three boys; and close behind them was Dan Rice's Circus, which had been exhibiting for two days on the Falls Field, and was now hurrying on to the next town. Whether it was because of the red skirts worn by many of the women in front of them, or the rumbling of the circus so close behind them, I did not know, but those cattle did behave in the most frantic manner.

And so the whole caravan went roaring down the turnpike—Phaeton in his flying car at the head, then the Dublin boys, then our boys, then the mothers of the Dublin boys, then the drove of cattle, then the circus, with all its wagons and paraphernalia,—the striped zebra bringing up the rear.

"THE WHOLE CARAVAN WENT ROARING DOWN THE TURNPIKE."

It soon became evident that the mothers of the Dublin boys were proceeding on erroneous information—however they got it—and supposed that the contest between us and their sons was not a friendly one. For whenever one of our boys lagged behind in the race, and came within reach of their sticks, he was pretty sure to get a sounding whack across the shoulders. I dare say the Dublin boys would have received the same treatment if they had not been ahead of us in the race, which they always were, either because they were better runners, or better prepared.

Foremost of all was Patsy Rafferty, who, by doing his prettiest, had closed up the distance between himself and the car, and was now abreast of it.

Phaeton became excited, and, determined not to be beaten, lightened his car by hurriedly throwing out one of the bags of sand. Unfortunately, it struck the ground right in front of Patsy, and the next instant he stubbed his toes on it and went sprawling into the gutter.

When the Dublin women saw this, they probably took it as full confirmation of the evil designs which somebody had told them we had on their sons, and some of our boys immediately paid the penalty by receiving a few extra whacks.

As for Patsy, he soon picked himself up and renewed the race, all the more determined to win it because he thought Phaeton had tripped him purposely—which I am happy to say was not true.

As we neared the railway crossing, Jack-in-the-Box was half way up the signal-pole. Hearing the outcry, he looked down upon us, took in the situation at a glance, then descended the pole two steps at a time, seized his red flag, and ran up the track at lightning speed. He had calculated that the Pacific express would arrive at the crossing just in time to dash through some part of our procession, and as he saw it would be useless to try to stop us, with everything crowding on behind us, he went to flag the train and stop that. This he just succeeded in doing, and when my section of the procession passed that given point,—you know it is the inveterate habit of processions to pass given points,—there stood the great locomotive stock still by Jack's box, with its train behind it, and seemed to look down upon us like an astonished and interested spectator.

We swept on across the track, and as there was a straight, smooth piece of road before us, all went well till we neared the canal. There a stupid fellow, as we afterward learned, leading home a cow he had just bought, had tied her to the corner-post of the bridge by which the turnpike crossed the canal, and gone into a neighboring grocery. The cow had placed herself directly across the narrow road-way of the bridge, and there she stood contentedly chewing her cud, entirely ignorant of the fact that an important race was in progress, and that she was obstructing the track.

Phaeton saw her with horror; for if he kept on, the car would run into her—the foot-path over the bridge was too narrow for it. He threw out his anchor, which ricochetted, as an artillerist would say. That is, it would catch the ground for an instant, and then fly into the air, descend in a curve, catch again, and fly up again. At last it caught on a horse-block, stuck fast, and brought the car to a stop.

But before Phaeton could climb out, Patsy Rafferty had come up, and, whipping out his jack-knife, cut the anchor-rope in two. In an instant the machine was off again.

Phaeton's situation was desperate. There stood the stupid cow like an animated toll-gate closing the bridge, and he rushing on to destruction at the rate of a good many miles an hour, with no way to stop the machine, and a certainty of broken bones if he jumped out.

In his agony, he half rose in the car and gave a terrific yell. The cow started, saw him, and then clumsily but quickly swung herself around against the truss of the bridge that divided the carriage-way from the foot-path. But the carriage-way had been newly planked, and the planks were not yet nailed down. As the cow stepped on the ends, four or five of these planks were instantly tilted up like a trap door, while the cow sank down till she was wedged between the truss and the first sleeper or lengthwise beam (the space being not quite large enough to let her drop through); the planks of course being held in an almost perpendicular position between her body and the sleeper.

Into the abyss that thus suddenly yawned before him, Phaeton and his chariot plunged.

After him went Patsy Rafferty, who on seeing the danger had laid hold of the car and tried to stop it, but failed. Whether he jumped through, or let himself down more cautiously by hanging from the floor of the bridge and dropping, I did not see; but, at all events, when the rest of us reached the tow-path by running down the embankment, the waters of the canal had closed over both boys and the car.

At this moment another accident complicated the trouble and increased the excitement. This was a "tow-path bridge"—one which the boat-horses have to pass over, because at that point the tow-path changes from one side of the canal to the other. The "Red Bird" packet-horses, coming up at a round trot, when they reached the crown of the bridge and saw the rushing, roaring caravan coming at them, and heard Phaeton's yell, stopped, and stood shivering with fear. But the packet was all the while going ahead by its own momentum, and when it had gone the length of the tow-line, it jerked the horses over the parapet into the water, where they floundered within a yard of the sunken machine.

The Dublin women gathered on the tow-path, and immediately set up an unearthly wail, such as I have never heard before or since. I think that some of them must have "cried the keen," as it is called in Ireland.

Patsy soon emerged from beneath the wreck, hauling Phaeton out by the hair, and as half a dozen of the boys, from both parties, were now in the water, they had plenty of help. The bow-hand of the "Red Bird" cut the tow-line with a hatchet,—if he had been attending to his business, he would have done it soon enough to prevent the accident,—and the horses, thus released, swam ashore.

Meantime the circus had stopped, and many of the men came to the scene of the disaster, while most of the packet passengers stepped ashore and also joined the wondering crowd.

The steersman brought a long pike-pole, with which he fished out Phaeton's car.

Every one of the kite-strings was broken, and the kites had gone down the sky, with that wobbling motion peculiar to what the boys call a "kite-broke-away," to find lodgment in some distant forest or meadow.

Great was the wonderment expressed, and many were the questions asked, as the packet passengers and the circus people crowded around the rescued car and the dripping boys. The Dublin women were wringing out the jackets of our boys, and talking rather fast.

A benevolent-looking old gentleman, who wore a white vest and a large fob-chain, said, "Something ought to be done for that boy"—pointing to Patsy Rafferty.

The Clown of the circus said "Certainly!" and taking off his hat passed it first to the benevolent-looking old gentleman, who seemed a little surprised, but soon recovered, and hastily dropped in ten cents.

Then the Clown passed it all around, and nearly everybody, excepting the boys, of course, put in a little something. The Patagonian Woman of the circus, who had very red cheeks and very round eyes, and wore a large diamond ring on nearly every finger, gave the most of anybody,—half a dollar,—which she borrowed of the Strong Man, who used to lift the big iron balls on the back of his neck.

The Clown counted the money, and said there were three dollars and eighty-four cents, and a crossed shilling, and a bogus quarter, and two brass buttons, and a pewter temperance medal.

"Well," said he, in a solemn tone, looking down at the collection, and then around at the people, "I should say this crowd was about an average specimen of humanity."

I didn't see the Clown himself put in anything at all.

"Here, sonny," said he to Patsy, "we'll tie it up in your handkerchief for you."

Patsy said he hadn't any handkerchief with him, just then; whereupon the Patagonian Woman gave him hers—excellent people, those Patagonians!—and the Clown tied it up with two hard knots, and Patsy tucked it into his trousers pocket, which it caused to bulge out as if he had just passed through 'Squire Higgins's orchard.

The boss of the circus offered to give Patsy a place, and take him right along, at fifteen dollars a month and his board. Patsy was crazy to go; but his mother said she couldn't spare him.

Some of the circus men brought a pole and tackle from one of their wagons, and lifted the cow out of her uncomfortable position, after which they replaced the planks.

"All aboard!" shouted the captain of the "Red Bird," for the tow-line had been mended and the horses rubbed down, and all the passengers started on a run for the boat, excepting the benevolent-looking old gentleman, who walked very leisurely, seeming to know it would wait for him.

"All aboard!" shouted the boss of the circus, and his people climbed upon the wagons, whipped up the horses, and rumbled over the bridge.

The Dublin women each laid hold of one or more of their boys, and marched them home; Lukey Finnerty's mother arguing, as they went along, that her boy had done as much as Patsy Rafferty, and got as wet, and therefore ought to have a share of the money.

"Oh, there's no doubt," said Mrs. Rafferty, in a gently sarcastic tone, "but your boy has taken in a great deal of cold water. He shall have the temperance medal."

The other women promptly took up the question, some on Mrs. Finnerty's side and some on Mrs. Rafferty's, and thus, all talking at once, they passed out of sight.