"Queer name for a railroad director," said Aunt Mercy. "But I suppose you've blundered on it. French, very likely. Might be Jacquin Thibaux. (I studied French two terms at Madam Farron's.) Some of those old Huguenot names have got into strange shapes. But it doesn't matter. I dare say Monsieur Thibaux is right about it. I haven't any money with me to-night, but I'll send it over to you to-morrow. Don't let that ignorant brother of yours meddle with your printing-office; he'll misspell every word, and disgrace the family."
"I'll try to keep him straight," said Ned. "Good-night, Aunty."
"Good-night, Edmund Burton, my dear boy."
"I thought part of this capital," said I to Ned, as we walked away, "was for the horizontal balloon."
"So it is," said he; "but I couldn't explain that to Aunt Mercy, because Fay has never explained it to me. I have no idea how he's going to make that queer thing go."
When Phaeton was furnished with a little more money, we soon saw how the thing was to go. He built three enormous kites, six feet high. They were not bow-kites—the traditional kite always represented in pictures, but seldom used in our country. They were the far more powerful six-cornered kite, familiar to the boys of the Middle States. He certainly built them with great skill, and Ned and I had the pleasure of helping him—if holding the paste-cup and hunting for material to make the tails was helping.
As each was finished, Phaeton carefully stood it up in the wood-shed to dry, where there was no more danger of Dublin boys; for Mr. Rogers had sent a carpenter to put on a new door and furnish it with a lock. Nevertheless, Phaeton took the first kite to his room for the night, and put it against the wall behind the bed. But Ned, who tossed a great deal, managed to kick a hole through it in his sleep. After that, they were left in the wood-shed over night, where a similar misfortune befell the second. Biddy, breaking kindlings in an unscientific way with the hatchet, sent a piece of wood flying through the kite, tearing a large hole on what a sailor would call the starboard quarter.
When Phaeton complained of her carelessness, she seemed to think she had improved the kite, saying: "The two kites were not comrades before—but they are now."
When an enterprising boy attempts to carry out some little project of his own, it is astonishing to see how even the best natured household will seem to conspire against him. If he happens to leave a few of his things on the dining-room floor, they are carelessly stepped upon by his own mother, or swept out-of-doors by an ignorant servant. I have seen a boy trying to make a galvanic battery, and his sister looking on and fervently hoping it would fail, so that she could have the glass cups to put into her play-house.
However, Phaeton had about as little of this sort of thing to endure as any boy ever had. When the kites were finished and dry, and the holes patched up, and the tails hung, Phaeton said he was ready to harness up his team as soon as the wind was right.