woke up about midnight with a start to see a flickering light reflected
on the wall. He was at the window in a moment, and after taking an
observation said to himself, “That’s in the freight-yards! It must be a
car on fire!”
It was not a big blaze, like a burning house, but a flickering little
blaze, like that of the lamps on the fruit-peddlers’ stands at night.
The desire to investigate was strong upon John Paul. His mother had
never objected to his going to fires, but would she let him go so late
at night? He would not wake her up to ask, and with a sigh went back to
bed again and dropped off to sleep—only to be wakened up by the distant
sound of a fire-engine rattling through the streets and to see the same
flickering light at the same spot on the wall.
He went to the window again and took the field-glass, which was one of
his most cherished possessions.
“It’s a car, sure enough, and they’ve got the engines out,” he said. “I
wish I could go and see.”
He went back to bed, but tossed and tossed, while the light still
flickered on the wall.
“It’s strange they don’t put it out,” he thought. “They must have been at
work at it two or three hours.”
He rose again and went to the window, but the air was so cold that he
dressed himself, his curiosity all the while growing stronger. Taking
his shoes in his hand he went softly down to the door, took the spare
latch-key from its hook, let himself quietly out, put on his shoes, and
slipped down to the front gate.
It was a windy night, with the moon eating up the clouds, and the streets
were very quiet. The first sign of excitement was at the gate of the
yards, where another fire-engine was just going in.
Fic slipped in beside it and took a short cut across the tracks, between
and under the cars, to the other side next the big freight-house, where a
fire-engine was pumping water through long lines of black hose on a big
tank-car that was all in a blaze on the under side.
The tracks were flooded. Fic balanced himself on a rail and watched the
blazing car with a puzzled look. Every time the stream of water fairly
struck the center of the flame it flew in every direction in sheets and
threads of fire, but always settled back at the bottom of the car.
The division superintendent of the road drove up. Fic knew him by sight,
for he lived in Lavenham and went to his church.
“What’s the matter?” the superintendent said, in a high-keyed voice. “Why
don’t you put out the fire?”
Three men drew out of the group around the fire-engine and came to the
side of the buggy. One was the yardmaster, another the conductor in
charge of the train, and the third the fire-chief.
“It’s naphtha,” said the chief. “There’s a leak somewhere in the pipes
that lets it down to the fire a little at a time. We can’t get at it for
the heat, and the water only scatters it.”
“The stuff must be pretty well out by this time,” said the conductor;
“and when it gets low and the fire works up into the tank there will be
an explosion. It’s awful stuff for fire.”
Fic was standing by the front wheel of the buggy and saw the
superintendent’s face grow pale by the flickering light.
“Can’t you move the car?”
“We can’t get near enough to couple, and the truck is about burned
through. We moved the other cars, but we can’t move the buildings.”
“Why not bring up the gravel-train from the lower switch and fill up from
below until the fire is buried.”
“There won’t be time. The tank’s nearly empty now. It’s been burning all
night.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” answered the chief. “Those tanks hold a
lot, and it doesn’t take much naphtha to make a big blaze. What I’m
afraid of is that it will explode while it is half full, and scatter the
burning stuff all over the yard. Or else it will burn a week, and stop
all the work in the yards while we are waiting for it to burst! That will
never do.”
Fic had been doing a lot of thinking while this hasty consultation went
on. He had not studied his physics for nothing, and he was sure he had
the key to the problem.
“Please, Mr. Sanderson, may I speak?”
The four men looked down and saw a boy in a short jacket, with eyes that
were burning with excitement, and Mr. Sanderson said, in amazement:
“Hello! Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“If you please,” said Fic, drawing himself up to the dashboard in his
excitement, “I know how to put out the fire!”
“You do, do you! Well, speak up quick! It’ll be worth a good many
thousand dollars and perhaps a few lives, if you do.”
“Take off the lid of the tank on top and pour water into the tank. The
wind blows the fire to one side, and if you can once get a hose in you
will do it.”
“How will that put the fire out?” cried the superintendent.
“It’s the specific gravity. Water is denser than naphtha and will
sink to the bottom. If it doesn’t explode when you open it, it won’t
afterward. The water will sink to the bottom and get into the leaky
pipes.”
“I believe the lad’s right,” said the fire-chief. “At all events, we’ll
try it. Who’ll help?”
Two or three volunteers came forward and lifted a ladder on the windward
side of the car. The chief mounted and pried up the lid. No explosion
followed, and on thrusting in his hand he found that the naphtha was
still very near the top. If the fire should reach and scatter it there
would be no hope of saving the buildings, he knew, and even the vapor was
dangerous. He called for a hose, thrust it in at the vent, and pulled
down the lid to keep the vapor in. Then he climbed down to watch the
result.
Already, as he reached the ground and turned to look, the flame had
diminished. In five minutes the fire was out, and water was dripping from
the cooled end of the leaky pipe, which was soon tied up and made safe.
Not only was the danger over, but almost the whole contents of the tank
were saved.
No sooner was the work of repair over by the gleam of hastily lighted
lanterns than the superintendent, like a man relieved by miracle,
suddenly pulled himself up from the side of the disabled car and looked
about him.
Then he shouted, “Where’s that boy?”
Nobody knew. For the moment they had forgotten all about the boy in
thinking of the escape from peril; and as for John Paul, so soon as he
saw that the fire was out and his faith in the principle of specific
gravity vindicated, his interest had ceased, and he had turned across the
flooded tracks toward home.
He slipped quietly in, got to bed by half past four without disturbing
anybody, and was up as usual when his mother called him to help her with
the morning work. He never troubled her with his experiments, and it did
not occur to him to speak of the night’s adventure.
Even the reporter of the _Daily Flashlight_ was too much interested in
the success of the experiment to interview the boy, although he made
the best of him in his story in the morning paper. He was a stranger in
Lavenham, and had never heard of the uncanny doings of Gravity Gregg. It
was not until the next day that the whole story got out, and Fic found it
necessary to go to school by the back streets to avoid public notice.
When the division superintendent reached home in the early morning, he
found his wife waiting for him with a cup of hot coffee, and as he drank
it he told her the story.
“I suppose I shall have to advertise for the boy,” he said. “I can’t let
him go. He saved the car and the buildings, and perhaps the lives of some
of us.”
“You needn’t do that,” answered Mrs. Sanderson, who knew nothing about
physics but had caught two words in the story. “He lives right around the
corner in the little brown house. He’s the oldest son of the Widow Gregg,
and nearly blew our Ralph’s head off one day last week with one of his
experiments. All the boys call him Gravity Gregg.”
While Mrs. Gregg was at breakfast the door-bell rang, and Mr. Sanderson
invited himself in. It took a long while to tell the story, for Mrs.
Gregg couldn’t understand that John Paul had been anywhere but safe in
bed all night, and John Paul couldn’t see that there was anything to make
a fuss about in so simple an expedient in practical physics.
People said that the railroad ought to make the boy a handsome present,
but it did not. What it did do was to see that he got the best kind of an
education and then to put him where he could climb high in their employ.
He carries a watch which Mr. Sanderson and the fire-chief gave him as
soon as he was considered by them old enough to take care of it, on the
case of which is engraved a name and a date. His mother is proud of him,
and, luckily for her pet ambition, she is quite as proud of another son
who is just such a minister as she hoped to make of John Paul Gregg.
JONNASEN
By Dallas Lore Sharp
It was a half-holiday at the quarries; the schools, the stores and shops
all closed at noon. The whole quarry town had turned out to see the great
granite shaft hauled to the station.
To avoid the risk and cost of two loadings, the forty-ton stone had been
derricked to the road at the edge of the quarry, and there, under a
temporary shed, had been cut, polished and crated. It now lay blocked
upon a low, powerful dray, ready to be moved to the freight siding in the
village, over a mile distant.
The stone was the largest single block of granite ever quarried at the
Laston ledges. It had been an expensive job from the start, and a very
troublesome one. It had led to a strike, a riot, and almost to murder.
There had been no man among the two hundred in the quarries capable
of properly dressing the stone. So the company had brought in Gunar
Gustavesen to do the work. And the men were angry at the intrusion of the
outsider.
The company was warned. So was Gustavesen. But the work on the shaft
went on—until the strike. Jonnasen, the leader of the men, was as sure
he was right and as stubborn as Hendricks, president of the firm. Then
the men grew ugly, there was a riot, Gustavesen’s furniture was burned in
the street, and he himself so brutally attacked that he still lay slowly
mending in one of the company’s houses.
It was a bitter victory, and Jonnasen was too honest a man to like it.
When it was reported to him that Havelok Gustavesen, the sixteen-year-old
son of the non-union man, had found some menial work in the company’s
stables, he made it clear to the men that the boy was to be let alone.
That is how it happened that young Gustavesen appeared among the men who
were busy with the twenty-four-horse team attached to the heavy dray.
The road from the quarry to the station was down grade except for two
steep hills, where the ledges cropped out, and where every ounce of the
pulling power of the great team would be required. At the top of the
second rise the downward slope stretched away for about half a mile with
a sharp curve round the edge of the old quarry. The curve was guarded by
heavy stone posts and a wooden rail.
The possibilities of all this had been reckoned with, and in order to
keep the forty tons of granite from pushing the horses before it, a pair
of heavy steel shoes had been fitted to a brake that might have held a
freight-train.
Jonnasen settled himself upon the seat of the dray, gathered up the reins
of the pole-team, and, with his foot upon the brake, gave the word to
start. The drivers of the forward spans echoed the command, and the dray
rolled out upon the road.
There is something inspiring in the work of willing horses. It is a noble
enthusiasm, little less than inspiration, that takes possession of the
horses themselves. The crowd along the road felt it and cheered, as the
twelve pairs, pulling like one, took the great polished shaft to the top
of the first hill.
It was a short and gentle descent to the second and steepest ridge.
Jonnasen put on the brake, and caught the weight so easily that the
horses of the pole moved free in their traces, yet kept them fairly taut.
Near the bottom of the slope he started them forward on the trot, loosed
the brake, and sent the long line at a good pace to take the second ridge.
It was a pretty piece of work. So beautifully did the immense stone mount
the rise that even the members of the firm in attendance cheered with
the rest.
Then a silence fell. No one spoke of danger, but as the great, shining
shaft pointed down the slope, its forty tons of dead weight seemed
suddenly to have changed into active power. It seemed to poise at the top
of the hill. It was a thing alive.
The ridge was a narrow ledge of granite, hardly wide enough to stop the
dray upon. Jonnasen had intended to breathe his team here, but by the
time the dray was up, the lead horses were already going down, and the
load, without a pause, began to descend.
Jonnasen bore down on the brake, drew in his horses, and looked off down
the long grade to the turn about the precipitous edge of the old quarry.
He drew a short, hard breath. No cooler man than this tall Swede ever
held a rein. He could handle horses as he could handle men.
But he had made a mistake, and he knew it instantly. He should have
stopped on the ridge, as he intended. He should have unhooked all the
horses ahead of the pole-team here. They were in the way. The horses at
the pole could guide the load down. The others were a menace, if anything
should happen.
“But nothing should happen!” he muttered to himself, and a half-smile
broke over his rugged face as he heard the grind of the brake and saw the
slack in the traces taken up. The load was under his foot.
Just then the lead horses broke into a trot. Immediately the whole line
started. Jonnasen bore down on the brake, and drew his own team hard
back to check the pull, when there was a sharp crack, like the report of
a pistol, and one of the steel shoes fell broken to the road.
Instantly a dozen warning voices told him what he too well knew had
happened. The big horses knew, too, and settled back to stop the push
from behind. Jonnasen put all his weight into the single steel shoe that
bit at the back wheel. A stream of sparks flew from the tire, and a wild,
shrill scream told that the brake still worked. But the horses were
sliding.
Then the pole ran into the team ahead, the horses plunged, and there was
confusion.
“Unhook them from the pole!” Jonnasen called to the nearest driver. The
man dropped his lines, caught the jangling traces and tried to run in
between the teams, but was struck by a hoof and rolled out of the road.
Panic seized the whole line of frightened horses. Some of the drivers
still held their teams back, but they were being dragged helplessly.
“Unhook them!” Jonnasen shouted to the crowd shrinking back against the
fence. Were he free to let his own team go, they might keep ahead of the
load, and take the turn with a possible chance of rounding the edge of
the deep quarry.
“Unhook them!” he shouted again, powerless to quit his place and do the
thing himself. But no one was able to move.
Then a lithe young figure came bounding down from the ridge. It was young
Gustavesen. He sprang upon the dray, ran forward, seized the whip in
Jonnasen’s hand, and in a cool, deliberate voice, said:
“When I get hold, let ’em jump quick.” He dropped between the horses to
the pole, and clutching the harness, got quickly out to the end. He was
bending to catch the evener when a forward wheel struck a rut, and the
long tongue snapped him viciously into the air.
He caught the hames of the nigh horse, and saved himself. Hanging to the
hames, he swung back, lay out along the tongue, and reached again for the
evener.
Jonnasen was watching, and as the boy laid his hand upon the big hook, he
loosed the reins, the horses lunged, and the long, heavy bar was unhooked
almost of itself.
Like a flash the boy straightened and swung the lash about the horses
ahead, throwing himself an instant later upon the back of the horse he
was holding.
The loosened teams were barely dragged to the side as the pole-team went
by on the gallop, with its forty-ton stone.
Jonnasen had the horses under perfect control. He could guide them
straight ahead. But the mighty stone was gathering momentum with every
leap of the team, and powerful as they were Jonnasen began to realize
that they would never be able to check or turn the downward plunge at the
curve on the edge of the quarry.
Then he saw that young Gustavesen was making no attempt to fling himself
from the galloping horse.
“Jump!” he shouted. “Jump, quick!”
Havelok turned. “I can’t jump!” he called back. “My leg! Tend your team!
I’m safe here!”
The absolute confidence of the boy sent a strange thrill through the big
Swede. It steadied him.
They were near to the turn, with the horses running close to the inner
side, and still well in hand.
Jonnasen thought quickly. It was a chance—the only chance. One of
them—both of them—might escape if he could hit with the long iron hub of
the rear wheel the tough young white oak that stood out on the very round
of the sharp curve.
Jonnasen drew the horses in a little, spoke to them quietly, then sent
the front wheel past the tree with a bite at the bark, pulled the team
hard in, and leaped.
There was a dull crash, a ripping of harness, and a grinding crunch as
the forty-ton stone slued over the crushed wheel across the broken top of
the tree.
Jonnasen was picked up in the road, unconscious, but not seriously hurt.
The escape of Gustavesen was more than luck. It was a miracle, but a
miracle worked by his own presence of mind, and the coolness, quickness
and good judgment of Jonnasen.
As the wheel struck, the traces parted, the pole-chains snapped, and the
horses shot ahead free, with the boy clinging to the harness.
When he was helped down, his right leg was found to be broken; but that
had happened back along the road, when he was snapped from the pole while
trying to unhook the forward teams. And it was this that prevented his
trying to fling himself off to the road as his perilous ride began.
No harm had come to the shaft. The dray was a wreck, but the great stone
lay unbroken, and almost unscratched, among the débris.
It was a week later, as both Gustavesens, father and son, were
convalescing, that they received a letter, concluding as follows:
Henceforth a man shall be a man here. Some things have been
done that the men in this quarry are ashamed of. They believe
now that every man has a right to work and live under the law
according to the dictates of his own conscience.
For the men,
(Signed) Jonnasen.
IN THE OVEN
By Richard Washburn Child
“I am inclined to think that a girl’s wit is quicker than a man’s in a
tight place, if the place is tight enough.”
Mr. Colchester had spoken after we had been silently sitting for several
minutes watching the mist that was creeping over the moonlit water and
listening to the chirp of the crickets in the grass.
He always began a story by stating the moral. His way was to present some
conclusion and then prove it by a personal experience.
“I was thinking of my sister,” he explained. “She once saved us both from
a fearful death. If it had not been for her ready wit I should have been
a biscuit!”
At this every one straightened up perceptibly. Mr. Colchester’s stories
were always interesting.
“Perhaps all of you do not know that my father was a cracker
manufacturer,” he continued, “and that he had a shop with machinery and
three ovens in it. Of course that would be considered nothing to-day,
when there are bakeries that supply thousands of people in every part of
the country, but when I was a boy I remember I used to wonder that there
were enough mouths to consume all that my father’s workmen made.
“I often went down to the shop, for it was really fascinating to watch
the mixers turning the great rolls of dough over and over, and see the
cutting-machines chopping a long strap of it into little sticky lumps.
Then old Carberry, the baker, would toss the pieces which had been patted
and molded by hand on the tiled floor of the oven. Sometimes my sister
Margaret used to go with me, for we were great chums, and it was on one
of those occasions that we got into trouble.
“The day, I remember, had been rainy, and after a discouraging attempt to
amuse ourselves in the house, Margaret said, ‘Let’s take umbrellas and go
down to the bakery.’
“I was so glad of the suggestion that I forgot it was the noon hour, when
the men would be gone and the machinery shut down. It wasn’t until we saw
the deserted room that we remembered it.
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘we are bright, aren’t we? But let’s look round—I’ll
tell you, let’s look at the cool oven.’
“‘Cool oven!’ exclaimed Margaret, in surprise.
“I explained to her that in the ordinary course of business only two
ovens were used, and that unless there were extra orders there was always
one oven which was out of commission, being shut off from the furnaces
below by the big sheet-iron dampers.
“I raised the latch of the heavy door and bent down to look across the
flat, tiled surface inside.
“‘It’s just like a cave, isn’t it, Bob?’ cried my sister; and I laughed
at the idea and asked her whether she expected to see a bear or a robber
walk out.
“‘Of course I don’t!’ she said, for she always was on her guard against
my making fun of her. ‘Let’s crawl in.’
“‘All right,’ said I, touching the brick walls to make sure I hadn’t made
a mistake; and then I followed her inside through the gloomy opening.
“‘Will it get my dress dirty?’ Margaret asked, out of the darkness.
“‘No, indeed,’ said I. ‘They have to keep these ovens clean as can be.
They’re fussy about every speck of dust.’
“I had hardly finished when the iron door behind us shut with a
resounding clang. One of the workmen who had come back to work had closed
it!
“‘O Bob,’ cried my sister, with a little scream of fright, ‘we’re shut
in!’
“‘Like two biscuits,’ I laughed. ‘Don’t you mind. All we have to do is
to shout and some one will come.’
“But Margaret was really scared, and groped her way near me to put her
hand on my shoulder. I confess the darkness and the close, stuffy air
were far from cheerful.
“I began to call as loud as I could, and not getting any answer, I crept
over to the solid iron door and began kicking it with my heels. After
a moment I stopped, breathing hard from my exercise, and then I heard
Margaret’s voice behind me, saying:
“‘Wait a minute, Bob! Listen!’
“I strained my ears, and from the outside I could hear a rumbling that
seemed to come from far, far away.
“‘It’s the machinery!’ I cried. ‘It’s after one o’clock, and they have
begun work again. No wonder they couldn’t hear us!’
“By that time I had become really frightened, and I suppose I must have
temporarily lost my head. I shouted wildly until my throat was sore,
but it seemed only to fill our oven trap with noise. There was no hope
whatever that it would penetrate the thick brick walls. Suddenly I
was startled into silence by a sound of scraping iron underneath us—a
familiar noise to my ears. Some one had pulled open the great damper that
shut us off from the fires in the cellar below! They were going to heat
our oven!
“‘What was that?’ exclaimed my sister, touching my hand with her cold
fingers. ‘What did that noise mean, Bob?’ She seemed to know our danger
by instinct. I did not answer, for with a sinking heart I felt on my face
the first breath of warm air!
“‘Tell me, Bob!’ demanded Margaret. ‘They are heating this oven, aren’t
they?’ She had caught my wrist and pressed it as hard as a girl could
squeeze.
“‘Yes!’ I gasped, trying to speak bravely. I remember I felt that if I
were alone I should not care nearly so much, but the idea that my little
sister would have to die, too, put me into another panic.
“A second breath of air a good deal hotter than the first fanned my
cheek. I jumped up with a scream, and beat and kicked upon the rough
brick walls and on the iron door in blind terror. Then, exhausted, I
crawled along the floor to the place where Margaret sat. She was crying
quietly—I could tell because when I put my arm about her I could feel
that she was shaking.
“‘They will never, never hear us!’ she sobbed.
“‘Don’t cry, Margy,’ said I, patting her wet cheek while I tried to
arouse my own courage. ‘Perhaps there is another way.’
“I tried to think, but the heat had then become almost unbearable; it
stung my nose and seemed to suffocate me. Once when I touched a place on
one of the tiles I drew my hand back in real pain. There was no hope of
breaking the latch of the iron door, and no one could hear us, though we
put our mouths to a little crack at the top of the door and screamed. I
was sure we would be baked. My arm was still round my sister, and her
hand was still in mine, as if she were seeking the comfort of the touch.
“It was becoming hotter and hotter, but neither of us spoke for several
seconds. Then suddenly Margaret started up and cried out, eagerly, ‘Tell
me, Bob, quick! Have you got a piece of paper?’