CHAPTER XXI.
A TEA PARTY.
The mending of the chairs had entirely changed Aunt Mercy's demeanor toward us.
"I've given you money to make a great many muddles," said she; "but, so far as I can learn, this is the first successful muddle you've produced. However, this is fine enough to make up for all. And I want you both to come and take tea with me Saturday evening."
Phaeton and Ned not only accepted the invitation with thanks, but asked to have me included in it.
"Certainly," said Aunt Mercy; "it wouldn't do to separate you and him. And if you have any other very particular friends among the boys, bring them along too. Only let me know how many are coming."
Phaeton said he should like to invite Jimmy the Rhymer.
"Invite Jimmy," said Aunt Mercy.
"And Monkey Roe is awful lively company," said Ned.
"Invite Monkey," said Aunt Mercy.
"If we're going to have so many," said Phaeton, "I shouldn't like to leave out Isaac Holman."
"It isn't exactly a spelling-match, but choose away," said Aunt Mercy. "It's your turn now, Edmund Burton."
Ned chose Charley Garrison, and then Phaeton chose Patsy Rafferty, and after some discussion they determined to let the list end there.
"You haven't mentioned a single girl," said Aunt Mercy.
"Sister May is too little," said Ned; "and besides that, I don't much believe in girls, any way."
"That's complimentary to your mother and me," said his aunt.
"I don't think we know any girls well enough to ask them," said Phaeton,—"unless it may be one," and he blushed a little.
"One will do," said Aunt Mercy; and so it was agreed that she should invite Miss Glidden, whom she called "a very sweet girl."
The evening that had been designated was the evening of the day recorded in the last chapter, and not one of the eight boys included in the invitation forgot it.
We gravitated together, after a series of whistlings, and all went to Aunt Mercy's in a crowd.
When we arrived at the house, Phaeton went up the steps first, and rang the bell. There was no immediate response, and while we were waiting for it, Ned and Monkey Roe, who had lagged behind a little, came up.
"Oh, pshaw!" said Ned, "don't fool around out here. Probably the girl's cooking something that she can't leave right away; but Aunty expects us—come in, boys," and he opened the door and led us into the hall.
"I ought to know the way around this house pretty well," he continued. "Here's the place to hang your caps," and he pointed out the hat-rack under the slope of the stairs.
With a soft, pattering noise, the eight caps almost instantly found lodgment on the pegs, some being thrown with great precision by the boys who were hindmost over the heads of the others.
"Now follow me, boys; I'll introduce you to Aunt Mercy; I'm perfectly at home here," said Ned, and throwing open the parlor door, he ushered us in there as unceremoniously as he had admitted us to the house.
The parlor was beautifully though not brilliantly lighted by an argand lamp. Aunt Mercy was sitting on the sofa, and beside her—"awful near together," as Ned expressed it—sat a tall gentleman, with a full beard and a sun-browned face.
"Why! What does this mean?" said Aunt Mercy, as soon as she could get her breath.
Ned was considerably abashed, and had fallen back so that he was almost merged in the crowd of boys now huddled near the door. But he mustered courage enough to say:
"We've come to tea."
Phaeton stepped forward, and relieved the situation:
"You remember, Aunty, you asked us to come to tea this evening, and bring our friends. But, perhaps now it isn't convenient for you. We can come some other day just as well."
"Really," said his aunt, "I made preparations for you to-day, and it's perfectly convenient; but in the last two hours I had totally forgotten it. You see I have an unexpected visitor."
Phaeton introduced those of the boys whom his aunt had never seen before, and she then introduced us all to Mr. Burton. She had not the least trouble in remembering Phaeton's name, and she called Mr. Burton's attention especially to Ned as his namesake.
"Is this the Mr. Burton who was dead long ago?" said Ned.
"The very same one," said his aunt, laughing. "But he has suddenly come to life again, after many strange adventures, which he has just been telling me. I must ask him to tell them over again for you. But did none of you call for Miss Glidden?"
We all looked blank.
"Then," said she, "Fayette must go after her now."
Phaeton took his cap and started at once. Three of the boys kindly offered to go with him, fearing he would be lonesome, but he said he didn't mind going alone.
While he was gone, we made the acquaintance of Mr. Burton very rapidly. He seemed a good deal like Jack-in-the-Box in one respect—he liked boys. In Ned he appeared to be particularly interested. Several times over he asked him how old he was, and how tall he was. I suppose Ned seemed to him to be a sort of visible measure of the time that had been lost out of his life; for he must have disappeared from the knowledge of his friends about the time that Ned was born.
Soon after Phaeton returned with Miss Glidden, tea was announced.
Both during the meal and afterward, Mr. Burton did the greater part of the talking, and his conversation consisted mainly of a running account of his adventures since he left his home, more than a dozen years before. I give the story as nearly as possible in his own words. It was of a nature to seize upon a boy's fancy; but I fear it has not lain in my memory all these years without losing many of its nicest points.
"I was a tall and slender boy," said Mr. Burton,—"so slender that my parents feared I would become consumptive, and I reached the age of twenty without improving much in that respect. Our family physician said a long sea-voyage might build me up and make a strong man of me, and as my uncle owned a large interest in a whaler then fitting out, at Nantucket, for a cruise in the North Pacific, it was arranged that I should make the voyage. By my own choice, I shipped as a common sailor before the mast, as it seemed to me that was the only way to get the full benefit of the experience.
"I need not tell you the story of the tedious passage around Cape Horn, against head winds and through rainy seas. You have all read it dozens of times. The greenest hand on board was an accomplished sailor by the time we reached the whaling-ground. We had a prosperous cruise, and I calculated that though the hundred and twenty-fifth lay, which was to be my share, would not make me rich, it would give me considerable pocket-money when we got home.
"When we turned our prow southward for the long homeward voyage, our troubles began. Week after week we labored against heavy gales and head seas. It was many months since we had been in port, and we were not well equipped for so long a strain. At last, when we were barely out of the tropics, a terrific and long-continued easterly gale struck us, and drove us helplessly before it. Just before daylight, one morning, she struck heavily, with a shock that sent one of the masts overboard. Dawn showed us that we were wrecked on a lonely island. As nearly as the captain could calculate, this was in south latitude 27° and longitude 110° west.
"We judged that the island must be about a dozen miles long. Three volcanic peaks rose in plain sight, to a height of more than a thousand feet, and between their branching ridges were green valleys sloping down to the shore. If you ever see an old cart-wheel, with half its spokes broken or missing, which has lain upon the ground till the grass has sprung up through it, you may look upon it as a rude representation of the appearance that island presented from the sea. The hub would be the cone of an extinct volcano, the weather-beaten wood being about the color of the volcanic rock, and the remaining spokes the irregular, sharp ridges that radiated from it, some of them reaching to the water's edge and others stopping half-way.
"An hour or two after daylight, we found there was no possibility of saving the ship, though the storm was over. We launched the boats, but could make no landing on that side of the island, which was steep and rocky. So we pulled southward, and through a channel where two rocky islets lay off the south-east point, and soon came to a pretty bay, where we made a landing.
"Looking at the shore through the misty dawn, we had seen what looked like giants standing on the flat roofs of their houses and watching us. But they showed no signs of life, and the captain at length made them out, through his glass, to be images of some sort. We afterward had abundant opportunity to examine them, and found them to be stone statues of colossal size. What we had taken for houses were three platforms of solid masonry, built on ground that sloped toward and overlooked the sea. Four of these great statues had originally stood on each of the platforms, but most of the twelve were now overthrown. We measured one that lay on the ground, and found it was fifteen feet high and six feet across the shoulders.
"They were cut in gray stone, and each statue that was still standing had on its head an immense red stone, smoothly cut to the shape of a cylinder, at least a yard high,—as if it wore what you call a band-box hat, but with no brim. We afterward found there were great numbers of these statues in various places on the island, though mostly on the east side. Few of them seemed to be finished. It was as if the sculptor had taken the rough blocks and begun work at the top, and, after bringing out the statue perhaps as far down as the waist, had left it in that condition, and begun on the next one. The largest one we found was over twenty-five feet high.
"It was two hours after our landing before we saw any living being. Then we saw three children peeping at us from the top of a little hill. When we discovered them, they scampered away, and pretty soon a crowd of people appeared, led by an old man whose face was painted white, and who carried a long spear.
"The captain made them understand that we were cast away, and wished to be taken care of. They led us along the shore, to the entrance of one of those green and beautiful valleys, where we found a village and were made welcome. They kept saying 'Taya, taya, which we found meant 'friends,' and gave us a feast of yams, bananas, and roast chicken. The next day they went through a ceremony which we understood to mean that they formally adopted us into their tribe, and considered us their brothers. They also exchanged names with us. The man who adopted my name (Burton) called it Obuttee, and his which he gave me in exchange was Moaneena."
Mr. Burton gave a considerable account of his adventures on the island, which we found very entertaining; but I cannot remember it with sufficient accuracy to attempt repeating it. As we were walking home, Monkey Roe pointed out what he thought were improbabilities in the narrative too great to be believed,—especially the account of the gigantic stone statues, which he said could not possibly have been made by people who had no iron tools. I was inclined to share Monkey's incredulity at the time; but I now know that Mr. Burton told the truth, and that he must have been cast away on Easter Island, where Roggeween, the Dutch navigator, had discovered the mysterious statuary more than a century before.
"That little island," he continued, "was our home for nearly ten years. It is far out of the usual track of ships, and as good water is very scarce upon it, there is little temptation for them to go out of their way to visit it. We had two small boats, but the coast of South America was more than two thousand miles distant.
"At last a merchantman, driven out of her course by stress of weather, came to anchor off the western shore, and sent in a boat, the crew of which were naturally astonished at being greeted by white men.
"We were taken off, and carried to Melbourne, where every man took his own way of getting home. About half of them went to the newly discovered gold-fields. I got a chance after a while to ship before the mast in a vessel going to Calcutta.
"There I made the acquaintance of a young man who, I found, was from my native town; though I had not known him at home, as he was nearly, or quite, ten years my junior. His name was Roderick Ayr. He offered to lend me money, but I would take it only on condition that he receive my watch as security, to be redeemed when we reached home. It was a splendid watch, but had long since ceased to keep time, for want of cleaning.
"Mr. Ayr had been educated at one of the older colleges, knew something of engineering, had studied law, had spent a year in journalism, and had done a little something in literature—in fact, I think he told me he had published a small volume of poems, or essays. His talents were so varied that he found it difficult to settle down to one occupation; and so he had made a voyage to India, merely to see something of the world, while he was growing a little older and finding out what he was best fitted for.
"He was about to return home as a passenger, when I found an opportunity to ship before the mast in the 'Emily Wentworth,' bound for Boston. To keep me company, he shipped in the same capacity.
"We passed down the Hoogly, and wound through the horrible swamps and jungles of the Sunderbunds, where tigers and crocodiles were an every-day sight, till our pilot left us, on a sunny July morning, with the deep blue waters of the Bay of Bengal before us, and a gentle breeze from the north-east.
"Two days later we were struck by a cyclone, and the vessel was reduced to a helpless wreck. Everybody on board seemed paralyzed with terror, except Ayr and the captain, and the captain was soon swept away by a heavy sea. Three of the men, headed by the second mate,—a fellow named Hobbes,—managed to launch the only boat that had not been stove, threw into it a keg of water, a few provisions, and the charts and instruments, and were about to pull away and leave the rest of us to our fate, when Ayr ordered them back. As they paid no attention to him, he sprang into the boat and took Hobbes by the throat. Hobbes drew his knife, but as quick as lightning Ayr gave him a blow that sent him overboard. One of the sailors caught him and drew him in, and then they all consented to return to the deck. The next sea swept away the boat.
"Ayr was now recognized as commander, by virtue of his natural superiority, and the first mate, a well-meaning but forceless man, had the good sense to resign his authority to the only one who could do anything for us—if anything could be done at all.
"With a few volunteers to assist him, Ayr rigged and launched a raft, upon which nine of us embarked. The remainder of the crew had already been lost, or were afraid to leave the vessel, and some had lashed themselves to her spars. Ayr was the last to leave her. He jumped overboard, swam to the raft, cut the hawser, and we drifted away from the hulk, which heeled and went down before we were out of sight.
"The raft floated low, and half the time we were up to our necks in water, for all that day and all night heavy seas broke over her. Ayr, who was a powerful swimmer, was swimming about the raft the greater part of the time, sometimes tightening the fastenings where she threatened to break apart, and often saving and hauling on board again some poor wretch who had been swept off. But every few hours a man would be carried away whom Ayr could not reach, and our little company was continually growing smaller.
"As for myself, I was rather a poor swimmer, and either the exposure, or some disease that I had previously contracted, caused an uncomfortable swelling and puffiness in my fingers and toes. I took off, with some difficulty, a ring which I had worn for a dozen years, as it now begun to hurt me, and slipped it upon Ayr's finger, asking him to keep it for me till some happier time.
"In the afternoon of the second day, it became evident that the raft was too large for the strength of the ropes that held it together, and that a smaller one must be made. Ayr set to work to build it almost alone. Indeed, but four of us were now left—Simpson, an Englishman, Hobbes the mate, Ayr, and I. Ayr had lost a great deal of his strength, and his knife slipped from his hand and sank in the sea. I lent him mine, for the other two men were destitute of knives; Hobbes had lost his when Ayr knocked him out of the boat.
"Just as the new raft was ready to be cut loose, a great sea struck us, and widely separated the two, leaving Ayr and Hobbes on what remained of the old one, while Simpson and I were on the new. I saw Ayr plunge into the water and strike out toward us; but after a few strokes he turned back, either because he felt he had not strength to reach us, or because he would not leave Hobbes helpless. The sudden night of the tropics shut down upon us, and when morning dawned the old raft was nowhere to be seen.
"The sea was now much less violent, and Simpson and I managed to maintain our position in spite of our wasted strength. I felt that another night would be our last. But an hour before sunset we were picked up by a Dutch vessel, bound on an exploring voyage to the coasts of Borneo and Celebes. We had not the luck to sight any vessel going in the opposite direction, and so could only return after the explorations had been made, which kept us away from home nearly two years longer.
"When at last I crossed my father's threshold again, a week ago, I found that I was not only given up for dead, but was supposed to have been murdered by my dearest friend, Roderick Ayr. He and Hobbes had been picked up by a vessel bound for Liverpool.
"Hobbes, who, it seems, had never given up his grudge against Ayr, passing through my native town on his way from Boston to his own home, had stopped over a train for the purpose of setting afloat the story of the wreck, in which he so far mingled truth and falsehood as to represent that Ayr, in view of the scanty stock of provisions on the raft, had successively murdered three of the men in their sleep,—of whom I was one,—robbed them, and rolled their bodies off into the sea.
"When Ayr came along on the next train, a policeman's hand was laid upon his arm before he stepped off from the platform. He was taken to police headquarters and searched, and as my watch, my ring, and my knife were found in his possession, the evidence against him seemed conclusive. But the living, lying witness had disappeared, and could not be found. Either he had felt that he would be unable to confront Ayr and withstand cross-questioning, or else he had no desire to send Ayr to the gallows, but only to disgrace him in the estimation of his townsmen. In this he succeeded to a considerable extent. Ayr told the straight story, which his nearest friends believed—except some who feared he might have done, under the peculiar temptations of a wreck, what he would not have done under any other circumstances; and as no murder could be actually proved, he, of course, could not be held. But most of the people ominously shook their heads, and refused to receive his account of the watch, the ring, and the knife as anything but an ingenious triple falsehood. It was more than he could stand, and between two days he disappeared, his nearest relatives not knowing what had become of him.
"When I suddenly appeared in the town a few days since, those overwise people of two years ago were dumbfounded, and I hope by this time they are sufficiently ashamed of themselves. But some one besides Roderick Ayr had left the town during my absence. Miss Rogers had removed to Detroit six years before, and I took the next train for that city, only to learn that after a brief residence she had come here. So I retraced my journey.
"As we were entering the city this afternoon, I put my head out of the car-window in an idle way, and thought I saw a strange vision—a man standing beside the track with a flag in his hand, who wore the features of Roderick Ayr. In a moment it was gone, and I could not tell whether it was fancy or reality, whether I had been dreaming or awake. But as I was passing through the door of the railway station he accosted me, and sure enough it was my friend."
"By jolly!" said Monkey Roe, and brought his fist down upon the table with a whang that made every dish leap up an inch.
"Johannes in perpetuo!—Jack for ever!" said Isaac Holman.
"O-o-o-o-h!" said Ned, three times—once with his mouth, and once with each eye.
Phaeton leapt to his feet, and waving his napkin over his head, proposed "Three cheers for Roderick Jack-in-the-Box!"—whereupon all the boys rose instantly and gave three terrific cheers and a handsome tiger.
"Please excuse me, Aunty," said Phaeton; "I'm going to bring Jack-in-the-Box," and he was off.
"I don't know what he means by that," said Aunt Mercy. "You see, Edmund Burton, there's a gentleman connected with the railroad—either president or one of the directors—Monsieur Thibaux, Jacquin Thibaux, originally a Frenchman, who seems to have befriended these boys in some way, and they talk a good deal about him. I always have to laugh at the way they pronounce his name; as they don't understand French, they call it Jack-in-the-Box. I believe Monsieur Thibaux is a very fine man, but I don't know why my nephew should bring him here."
"The explanation is this," said Miss Glidden, "that Jack-in-the-Box, Jacquin Thibaux, and Roderick Ayr are one and the same person."
"Then of course I shall be most happy to welcome him," said Aunt Mercy. "But I confess I can't understand how a runaway young man could so soon become president of a great railroad, nor why the president should be waving a red flag, like a switch-tender."
The good lady had surpassed both of her nephews in making a muddle, and before it could be cleared up to her satisfaction, Mr. Ayr was announced.
The hostess rose to greet him, and "all the boys except Miss Glidden," as Patsy Rafferty expressed it, made a rush for him and wound themselves around him like an anaconda.
"Where's Fay?" said Ned, as he looked about him when the anaconda had loosened its folds.
"He's at the Box, managing the signals," said Jack.
The hero of the evening was now beset with inquiries, and nearly the whole story was gone over again, by question and answer.
"I understand it all now," said Ned, "except one thing. Why did you always refuse to look at a newspaper?"
"There were several reasons for that," said Jack. "One was, that the paragraph about my supposed crime was constantly turning up. Another was, that I thought my friends would advertise for me, and was afraid some of them might attempt to decoy me with what they would consider a justifiable fib,—as, that my mother was at the point of death, or something of that sort. If such a thing appeared, I preferred not to see it."