It was evident that Monkey Roe didn't want to talk about the mystery of the Dublin boys, and Holman—probably satisfied by this time that his suspicions were correct—himself changed the subject.
"When I saw this thing tearing down the turnpike," said he, "with all that rabble at its heels, and go splash into the canal, I was reminded of the story of Phaeton, which I had for my Latin lesson last week."
Of course, we asked him to tell the story.
"Phaeton," said Holman, "was a young scapegrace who was fond of fast horses, and thought there was nothing on four legs or any number of wheels that he couldn't drive. His father was the Sun-god Helios—which is probably a corruption of 'Held a hoss' (I must ask Jack-in-the-Box about it)—and his mother's maiden name was Clymene—which you can easily see is only changed a little from 'climb-iny.' This shows how Phaeton came by his passion for climbing in the chariot and holding the hosses.
"One day, one of the boys, named Epaphus, tried to pick a quarrel with him by saying that he was not really a son of Helios, but was only adopted out of the poor-house. Phaeton felt pretty badly about it, for he didn't know but it might be true. So he went home as fast as he could, and asked Helios, right out plump, whether he was his own son, or only adopted out of the poor-house. 'Certainly,' said the old gentleman, 'you are my own son, and always have been, ever since you were born.'
"This satisfied Phaeton, but he was afraid it might not satisfy the boys who had heard Epaphus's remark. So he begged to be allowed to drive the chariot of the Sun one day, just to show people that he was his father's own boy. Helios shook his head. That was a very particular job; the chariot had to go out on time and come in on time, every day, and there couldn't be any fooling about it. But the youngster hung on and teased so, that at last his father told him he might drive just one day, if he would never ask again."
"Did he have a gag-bit?" said Ned, remembering his brother's remarks on the occasion of our brisk morning canter.
"Probably not," said Holman, "for gag-bits were not then invented. The next morning old Helios gave the boy all the instructions he could about the character of the horses and the bad places in the road, and started him off.
"He hadn't gone very far when the team ran away with him, and went banging along at a terrible rate, knocking fixed stars out of their places, overturning and scattering an immense pile of new ones that had been corded up at the side of the road to dry (that's what makes the Milky Way), and at last setting the world on fire.
"Jupiter saw that something must be done, pretty quick, too, so he threw a sand-bag, or a thunder-bolt, or something of that sort, at him, and knocked over the chariot, and the next minute it went plump into the river Eridanus—which I've no doubt is the Latin for Erie Canal. You can easily see how it would come: Erie canal—Erie ditch—Erie drain—Erie drainus—Eridanus. That's the way Professor Woodruff explains words to the advanced class. He can tell you where any word came from in two minutes.