CHAPTER XVIII.
AN EXTRA FOURTH-OF-JULY.
Deacon Graham had predicted that "the wind would go down with the sun," and then the kite would fall. But the prediction was not fulfilled: at least there seemed to be a steady breeze up where the kite was, and in the moon-lighted evening it swayed gently to and fro, tugging at its string, and gracefully waving its pendulous tail. All the young people in town appeared to be walking out to see it, and the evening services were very slimly attended.
Monday morning the trustees of the church began to take vigorous measures for the suppression of the mysterious kite.
The cart of Hook-and-Ladder No. 1 was wheeled up in front of the church, and the two longest ladders taken off, spliced together, and raised with great labor. But they fell far short of reaching any point from which the hoop that held the kite could be touched.
"I hope you are satisfied," said the foreman to the trustees. "I told you them ladders wouldn't reach it, nor no others that you can get."
"Yes, I see," said Deacon Graham. "I supposed the ladders were longer. But we're very much obliged to you and your men."
"You're welcome," said the foreman, as the men replaced the ladders on the cart. "And by the way, Deacon, if you was thinking of sending a dish of oysters and a cup of coffee around to the engine-house, I may say that my men prefer Saddle-rocks and Java."
"Just so!" said the Deacon. "I'll send Saddle-rocks and Java, if I send any."
One of the trustees suggested that the most muscular of the firemen might go up in the steeple, open the little trap-door, and from there throw clubs at the string.
One of the firemen procured some sticks, about such as boys like for throwing into chestnut-trees, and went up and tried it. But the door was so far below the top of the steeple, and the position so awkward to throw from, that he did not even hit the string, and after one of the clubs in descending had crashed through the stained-glass skylight of a neighboring mansion, this experiment was abandoned.
The next consisted in firing with rifles at the kite, the hoop, and the string. The trustees looked up two amateur huntsmen for this purpose, and furnished a small amount of ammunition.
As there was a city ordinance against discharging firearms "in any street, lane, or alley, park, or square of the said city," the trustees were obliged to go first to the Mayor and get a suspension of the ordinance for this special purpose, which was readily granted.
As soon as the two huntsmen saw this in black and white, they fired half a dozen shots. But they did not succeed in severing the string or smashing the hoop. Like all failures, however, they gave excellent reasons for their want of success, explaining to the trustees that there was a difference between a covey of partridges and a small hoop on the top of a steeple. Their explanation was so lucid that I feel confident the trustees must have understood it.
"In rifle-shooting," added one of the huntsmen, "you always have to make allowance for the wind, and we can't tell how it may be blowing at the top of that spire till we learn by experimental shots. But we shall get the range after awhile; it's only a question of time."
What little ammunition they had with them was soon exhausted, and Deacon Graham, who was very excitable and over-sensitive as to anything connected with the church, rushed down town to buy some more.
"How much powder will you have?" said the clerk. "Enough to shoot a kite off from a steeple," said the Deacon.
The clerk couldn't tell exactly how much that would take—had not been in the habit of selling powder for that purpose.
"Give me enough, at any rate," said the Deacon.
The clerk suggested that the best way would be to send up a small keg and let them use as much as was necessary, the remainder to be returned. To this the Deacon assented, and accordingly a small keg of powder, with a liberal quantity of bullets and caps, was sent up at once,—all to be charged to the account of the church militant.
At the first shot the boys had begun to gather. When they found what was going on, that the ordinance was suspended, and that ammunition was as free as the gospel, they disappeared one after another, and soon reappeared carrying all sorts of shot-guns, muskets, and even horse-pistols and revolvers. No boy who could get a fire-arm failed to bring it out. Most of us had to hunt for them; for, so far as I know, not one of our boys was guilty of the folly of habitually carrying a pistol in his pocket.
The powder and bullets were on the church steps, where all who wished to aid in the good work could help themselves; and within half an hour from the time the ball opened, at least thirty happy and animated boys were loading and firing.
The unsectarian spirit of those boys was beautiful to behold. They were from all denominations, and yet every one of them was both willing and eager to burn Baptist powder in firing Baptist bullets at a Baptist steeple.
The noise had attracted the townspeople, and several hundred of them now stood looking on at the strange spectacle.
Patsy Rafferty ran home to draw some money from his teapot-bank, but found the cashier present, and hesitated. However, he soon plucked up courage, and said, with a roguish twinkle:
"Mother, will you please lend me two dollars of my money?"
Ordinarily, Mrs. Rafferty would have said no. But she was a very bright woman, and was so pleased with this evidence that Patsy had inherited some of her own wit, that she could not find it in her heart to refuse him.
"There's two dollars, and I suppose when you come back it'll be four," said she, remembering how money breeds money.
"Yes—four o'clock," said Patsy, as he ran out of the door and made for his friend the pawnbroker's, who sold him an old musket, with which, in a few minutes, Patsy joined the volunteers.
Ned Rogers had not been able to find any fire-arm; but when he learned where Patsy got his musket, and that the pawnbroker had a mate to it, he ran off to his aunt's house at his best speed, and entering unceremoniously, exclaimed:
"Aunty, I want two dollars quicker than lightning!"
"Edmund Burton! how you frighten me," said his Aunt Mercy. "Jane, get my pocket-book from the right-hand corner of my top bureau-drawer, and throw it downstairs right away."
The instant the pocket-book struck the floor, Ned snatched two dollars out of it and was off like a shot.
"Sweet, benevolent boy!" said Aunt Mercy. "I've no doubt he's hastening to relieve some peculiar and urgent case of distress he has discovered among the poor and sorrowful."
As it was rather late when Ned arrived at the church with his weapon, and the keg of powder was in its last quarter, he thought he'd make up for lost time. So he slipped in three bullets, instead of one, with his first load, and in his excitement rammed them so hard as almost to weld them together.
The consequence was that, when he discharged it, a large sliver was torn from the spire, and at the same time he found himself rolling over into the gutter, a very peculiar case of distress, indeed.
When Deacon Graham saw how fast the ammunition was disappearing, while the desultory firing produced no effect upon the kite, he thought some better plan should be devised, and conceived of a way in which, as he believed, concerted action might accomplish the desired result. But when he tried to explain it to the crowd, everybody was excited, and nobody paid the slightest attention to him.
The spectators partook of the general excitement, and applauded the performance.
"Bang away, boys! Never mind the Deacon!" said the pastor's son, as he pulled both triggers of a neat little double-barrelled shot-gun.
"Epigrus via, generosissimi tormentarii! Peg away, most noble gunners!" shouted Holman.
The Deacon, who had been growing more and more excited, was now beside himself. In his desperation, he sat down upon the keg of powder, and declared that no more should be used till he was listened to. Whereupon the pastor's son produced a lucifer match, lighted it, and declared that if the Deacon didn't get up at once, he'd send him kiting.
"Get up, or go up," was the laconic way in which he put it; and the Deacon got up.
"I'll tell you, Deacon," said one of the huntsmen, "a chain-shot would be the thing to break that string with."
"You shall have it," said the Deacon, and off he posted down town again, to order chain-shot. But the article was not to be had, and when he returned, the kite still rode triumphant.
The trustees held a meeting on the steps of the church. "Now don't get excited," said Mr. Simmons, the calmest of them; "the first shower will bring down the kite. We've only to go off quietly about our business, and leave it to nature."
"I don't know about that," said Monkey Roe, in a low tone, to one of the boys who had crowded around to learn what the trustees would do. "The back of that kite is pretty thoroughly greased. It'll shed water like a duck, and nothing less than a heavy hail-storm can bring it down."
"How do you know that, young man?" said Mr. Simmons, who overheard him.
"Why," said Monkey, seeing that he had betrayed himself, "you see—the fact is—I—I—saw a little bird try to light on the kite, but he slipped off so quick I knew it must be greased."
"Humph!" said Mr. Simmons. "That's a likely story."
"Brother Simmons," said Deacon Graham, "we can't wait for a storm,—there is no prospect of any. If we don't dispose of this thing pretty soon, I'm afraid it'll make us ridiculous."
Nobody was able to suggest any means of relief. Perhaps a sailor could have climbed the lightning-rod; but there was no sailor in town, and half way up the spire the rod was broken and a section was missing. There seemed to be no way short of building a scaffolding to the top of the steeple, which would have cost considerable money.
The pastor's son took Monkey Roe aside. "Your prophesy has been nobly fulfilled," said he, "and you've given us a tremendous piece of fun. Get us up another as good as this."
The result of the deliberations of the trustees was, that they resolved to offer a reward of twenty dollars to any one who would get the kite off from the steeple; and this offer was formally proclaimed to the crowd by Deacon Graham.
Hardly had the proclamation been made, when Phaeton Rogers, who had conceived a plan for getting down the kite, and had been preparing the necessary implements, appeared on the scene with his equipment.
This consisted of a powerful hickory bow, about as tall as himself, two heavy arrows, and a large ball of the best kite-string.
After measuring with his eye the height of the steeple and the direction of the kite, Phaeton said he must mount to the roof of the church.
"Certainly, young man," said Deacon Graham; "anything you want, and twenty dollars reward if you'll get that thing down. Here, sexton, show this young gentleman the way to the roof."
Phaeton passed in at the door with the sexton, and soon reappeared on the roof. The crowd seemed to watch him with considerable interest.
Standing on the ridge-pole, he strung his bow. Then he unwound a large part of the ball of string, and laid it out loosely on the roof; after which he tied the end of it to one of the arrows, and laid the arrow across his bow.
A murmur of approbation ran through the crowd, as they thought they saw his plan.
Pointing the arrow upward at a slight angle from the perpendicular, and drawing it to the head, he discharged it. The shaft ascended gracefully on one side of the string of the kite, and descended on the other side.
| "POINTING THE ARROW UPWARD AT AN ANGLE, PHAETON DREW IT TO THE HEAD." |
At sight of this, the crowd burst into applause, supposing that the task was virtually accomplished. It would have been easy enough now to take hold of the two ends of the string that had been carried by the arrow, and by simply pulling bring down the kite. But this would not have taken off the hoop from the top of the spire, and it would have been necessary to break off the kite-string, leaving more or less of it attached to the hoop, to float on the breeze like a streamer till it rotted away. Phaeton intended to make a cleaner job than that.
When the arrow fell upon the ground, Ned, by his brother's direction, picked it up and held it just as it was. Phaeton threw down the ball of string still unwound, and then descended to the ground. He very quickly made a slip-knot on the end of the string, passed the ball through it, and then, by pulling carefully and steadily on the ball-end, made the slip-knot slide up till it reached the string of the kite. Before it was pulled up tight, he walked out on the square in a direction to pull the slip-knot as close as possible to the hoop.
This done, he placed himself, with the string in his hand, on the spot where he supposed the one who got up the kite must have stood while putting the hoop over the point of the lightning-rod. That is to say, he walked from the church in such a direction, and to such a distance, that the string he held in his hand formed a continuous and (but for the sag) straight line with the string that held the kite to the hoop.
He expected, on arriving at this point, to raise his hand, give a jerk or two at the string, and see the hoop slide up and off the rod, from the tendency—caused by the kite's pulling at one end of the string, and himself at the other—to take up the sag.
His theory was perfect, but the plan did not work; probably because the wind had died down a little, and the kite was flying lower than when it was first put up.
When he saw that the hoop was not to be lifted by this means, he cast about for a further expedient, the crowd meanwhile expressing disappointment and impatience.
Carrying the string entirely across the square, he stopped in front of the house that was in line with it, and asked permission to ascend to the roof, which was granted. Breaking off the string, and telling Ned to stand there and hold the end, he put the ball into his pocket, took a pebble in his hand, and went up through the house and came out at the scuttle.
Tying the pebble to the end of the string, he threw it down to his brother, who tied the end of the string to the end he had been holding. Phaeton then drew it up, and once more pulled at the hoop.
It stuck a little at first; but as he alternately pulled and slackened, it was started at last, and began to slide up the lightning-rod; whereupon the crowd set up a shout, and a great many people remarked that they knew all the while the boy would succeed.
But the hoop only rose to a point about half way between its former resting-place and the tip of the rod, and there it remained. No sleight-of-hand that Phaeton could exercise would make it rise another inch. If the wind had freshened, so as to make the kite sail higher, the hoop would have slid to the top of the rod at once. But the wind did not freshen, and there was no taller building anywhere in line with the string than the one Phaeton was standing on.
The crowd expressed disappointment again, some of them groaned, and remarked that they had been confident all the while the boy couldn't do it.
"Ned," said Phaeton, "come up here."
Ned went up.
"Now," said Phaeton, "stand right in this spot; hold the string just as you see me holding it now; and try to pull on it just hard enough to make the hoop hang loosely around the rod instead of being held close against it either by the tugging of the kite one way, or by your pulling the other."
"I understand," said Ned. "I'll do my best."
Phaeton then went back to the church, and ascended to the roof again with his bow and arrow and the ball of string. Laying out the string as before, and tying the end to the arrow, he shot it over the kite-string so that the arrow fell upon the roof.
Making a slip-knot as before, he pulled upon the end of his string till the knot slid up to the kite-string at a point pretty near the hoop. He now broke off the string, leaving it just long enough to reach from the point where it was attached to the kite-string straight down to where he stood on the roof.
He tied the end to his arrow, and, drawing the shaft to the head, shot it straight upward. As the arrow left the bow, the crowd cheered again, for it was evident that when the arrow, in its course, should reach a point as far above the kite-string as Phaeton was below it, it would begin to pull the kite-string upward, and if it had force enough to go a yard or two higher, it must, of course, pull the hoop off from the rod.
But it lacked force enough. It rose till it had almost straightened the string it was carrying, and then wearily turned its head and dropped to the roof again.
The crowd groaned, and some of them left for their homes or their business, saying they knew all the while that foolery wouldn't work.
Phaeton sat down on the ridge-pole of the church, put his head between his hands, and thought. While he sat there, the crowd shouted all sorts of advice to him, most of which was intended to be sarcastic, though some spoke seriously enough, as those who suggested that he use a larger bow and a lighter string.
After some moments he got up, went to the arrow, and detached it from the string; then, taking the end of the string between his palms, he rolled it and rolled it, until he had very greatly hardened the twist.
If you have ever twisted a piece of common string up tight, and then, taking the two ends between your thumb and finger, let go of the middle, you know what it does. It doubles and twists itself together, in the vain effort to untwist.
When Phaeton had tightened the twist of his string as much as he could, he tied the arrow on again, laid it across his bow, pointed it toward the zenith, drew it to the head, and once more discharged it.
While the arrow was climbing, the string—wherever the slack folds of it hung near enough to one another—was doubling and twisting together, thus greatly shortening itself. The arrow had not gone much more than half its former distance above the kite-string when it arrived at the end of its own now shortened string, and gave such a jerk as pulled the hoop clear up from the end of the lightning-rod.
When the crowd saw this, they burst into a tremendous cheer, threw their caps into the air, and bestowed all sorts of compliments upon Phaeton.
Phaeton took off his hat and made a low bow to the people, and then disappeared through the little door in the tower, by which he had gained access to the roof. He soon reappeared, emerging from the front door, and then ran across the square, to the house where Ned still stood on the roof, like a statue, or Casabianca, waiting for his next orders.
"Haul her in," said Phaeton, and Ned immediately began winding in the kite, using his left forearm as a reel, and passing the string around his elbow and through the notch between his thumb and forefinger. He wound on everything as he came to it—hoop, mottoes, even Phaeton's arrow.
Phaeton stood in the street before the house, caught the kite by the tail as it approached the ground, and soon had it secure. He broke off the string, and Ned came down through the house.
An immense crowd surrounded them, and impeded their progress as they started for home.
"Jump into my carriage; I'll take you home," said the driver of an open barouche, who had stopped to see the performance, and like everybody else was intensely interested in it.
Phaeton was instantly seized in the arms of three or four men and lifted into the carriage. Then Ned was lifted in the same way and seated beside him. Then the kite was stood up on the front seat, leaning against the driver's back, with its astonishing motto staring the boys in the face. Lukey Finnerty, who had been proudly holding Ned's musket for him, handed it up, and it was placed aslant of the seat between the two boys. The bow, brought by the sexton, was placed beside it, and the carriage then moved off, while a large number of boys followed in its wake, three of them being suspended from the hind axle by their hands, while their feet were drawn up to clear the ground.
| RIDING HOME IN THE BAROUCHE. |
"Why is he carrying away that kite?" said Deacon Graham, asking the question in a general way, as if he expected the crowd to answer it in concert. "That belongs to the church."
"Sic nodus—not so," said Isaac Holman. "It belongs to him; he made it."
"Ah, ha!" said the Deacon; "I smell a mice, I s-m-e-l-l a mice!"
As the driver had recently procured his new and handsome barouche, and was anxious to exhibit it, he drove rather slowly and took a somewhat circuitous route. All the way along, people were attracted to their windows. As the carriage was passing through West street, Phaeton colored a little when he saw three ladies standing on an upper balcony, and lifted his hat with some trepidation when the youngest of them bowed. The next moment she threw a bouquet, which landed in the carriage and was picked up and appropriated by Ned.
"I am inclined to think," said Phaeton, "that bouquet was intended for me."
"Was it?" said Ned. "Then take it, of course. I could buy one just like it for a quarter, if I cared for flowers. But, by the way, Fay, what are you going to do with the twenty dollars you've won? That's considerable money."
"I am going to put it to the best possible use for money," said Phaeton.
"I didn't know there was any one use better than all others," said Ned. "What is it?"
"To pay a debt," said Phaeton.
"I never should have guessed that," said Ned; "and I don't believe many people think so."
As they rode by Jack's Box, Jack, who stood in the door, learned for the first time what Monkey Roe had wanted the Scripture motto for.
They also passed Aunt Mercy's house, and their aunt and Miss Pinkham were on the piazza. Ned stood up in the carriage and swung his hat. Phaeton saluted his aunt more quietly.
"What in the world are those boys doing in that barouche?" said Aunt Mercy.
"I don't know, but I'll go and find out," said Miss Pinkham, and she ran to the gate and got the story from one of the Dublin boys, who spoke of Phaeton and Ned as "the Rogers boys," without differentiating them, as a scientific man would say.
Miss Pinkham returned to the piazza and repeated the whole story.
"Edmund Burton always was a smart boy," said Aunt Mercy. "I could have predicted he would be the one to get that kite off. He'd find a way to scrape the spots off the sun, if they wanted him to. But I don't see why that stupid brother of his should be stuck up there to share his glory."
When it came to the question of paying the reward, Deacon Graham stoutly opposed the payment, on the ground that Phaeton himself had been concerned in putting the kite on the steeple—or, at least, had furnished the kite—for the very purpose of getting it down as he did. He said "no boy could fool him,—it was too long since he was a boy himself,"—which seemed to me a very singular reason.
It looked for a while as if Phaeton would not get the money; but the other trustees investigated the matter, rejected the deacon's theory, and paid the reward.
On their complaint, Monkey Roe was brought before 'Squire Moore, the Police Justice, to answer for his roguery. The court-room was full, about half the spectators being boys.
"What is your name?" said the Justice.
"I'm not sure that I know," said Monkey.
"Not know your own name? How's that?"
"Because, my mother calls me Monty, my father calls me James, and the boys call me Monkey Roe."
"I suppose the boys are more numerous than your parents?" said the Justice.
"Much more," said Monkey.
"And you probably answer somewhat more readily when they call?"
"I'm afraid I do."
"Then," said the Justice, "we'll consider the weight of evidence to be in favor of the name Monkey Roe, and I'll enter it thus on the record."
As he wrote it down, he murmured: "We've often had Richard Roe arraigned in this court, but never Monkey, I believe."
"Now, Monkey, I'm going to ask a question, which you need not answer unless you choose to. Did you, on Saturday night last, between the hours of sunset and sunrise, raise, fly, and elevate one six-cornered paper kite, bearing a motto or sentiment from the sacred book called Leviticus, and tie, fix, anchor, attach, or fasten the same to the lightning-rod that surmounts the spire, or steeple, of the First Church of the sect or denomination known and designated as Baptist, fronting and abutting on Independence square in this city?"
"To the best of my knowledge and belief, I did," said Monkey.
"Please state to the court, Monkey, your motives, if you had any, for this wicked and atrocious act."
In answer to this, Monkey told briefly and clearly the whole story, which the reader already knows, beginning at the point where he "just stopped half a second, Sunday morning, to see how that boy's kite pulled." When he came to the scene in the Sunday-school room, he gave it with a dramatic effect that was well calculated to arouse sympathy for himself.
'Squire Moore had been as much interested as anybody in the kite on the steeple, and had laughed his enormous sides sore when he scanned it and its appendages through Patsy's glass. When Monkey had finished his story, the 'Squire delivered the decision of the court in a little speech.
"I have searched the Revised Statutes," said he, "and have consulted the best authorities; but I look in vain to find any statute which makes it a penal office to attach a kite to a steeple. The common law is silent on the subject, and none of the authorities mention any precedent. You have succeeded, young man, in committing a misdemeanor for which there is no penalty, and the court is, therefore, obliged to discharge you, with the admonition never to do so any more."
As Monkey left the bar, there was a rush for the door, the boys getting out first. They collected in a body in front of the building, and, when he appeared, gave him three tremendous cheers, with three others for 'Squire Moore,—in which performance the pastor's son was conspicuous.
But when Monkey came to face the domestic tribunal over which his father presided, he found that a lack of precedent was no bar to the administration of justice in that court.
About a week later, a package addressed to me, and bearing the business-card of a well-known tailor, was left at our door. When I opened it, I found a new Sunday suit, to replace the one which had been ruined when Phaeton wore it to the fire. It must have taken about all of his reward money to pay for it.
For years afterward, the boys used to allude to that season as "the summer we had two Fourth-of-Julys." The scars made by the bullets on the steeple were never healed, and you can see them now, if you chance to pass that way.