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.