ANOTHER DISAPPEARANCE
This was not the first occasion on which, at the end of their stormy
discussions, the members of the Weldon Institute had filled Walnut
Street and its neighborhood with their tumult. Several times had the
inhabitants complained of the noisy way in which the proceedings ended,
and more than once had the policemen had to interfere to clear the
thoroughfare for the passersby, who for the most part were supremely
indifferent on the question of aerial navigation. But never before had
the tumult attained such proportions, never had the complaints been
better founded, never had the intervention of the police been more
necessary.
But there was some excuse for the members of the Weldon Institute. They
had been attacked in their own house. To these enthusiasts for “lighter
than air” a no less enthusiast for “heavier than air” had said things
absolutely abhorrent. And at the moment they were about to treat him as
he deserved, he had disappeared.
So they cried aloud for vengeance. To leave such insults unpunished was
impossible to all with American blood in their veins. Had not the sons
of Amerigo been called the sons of Cabot? Was not that an insult as
unpardonable as it happened to be just—historically?
The members of the club in several groups rushed down Walnut Street,
then into the adjoining streets, and then all over the neighborhood.
They woke up the householders; they compelled them to search their
houses, prepared to indemnify them later on for the outrage on their
privacy. Vain were all their trouble and searching. Robur was nowhere
to be found; there was no trace of him. He might have gone off in the
“Go-Ahead.” the balloon of the Institute, for all they could tell.
After an hour’s hunt the members had to give in and separate, not
before they had agreed to extend their search over the whole territory
of the twin Americas that form the new continent.
By eleven o’clock quiet had been restored in the neighborhood of Walnut
Street. Philadelphia was able to sink again into that sound sleep which
is the privilege of non-manufacturing towns. The different members of
the club parted to seek their respective houses. To mention the most
distinguished amongst them, William T. Forbes sought his large sugar
establishment, where Miss Doll and Miss Mat had prepared for him his
evening tea, sweetened with his own glucose. Truck Milnor took the road
to his factory in the distant suburb, where the engines worked day and
night. Treasurer Jim Chip, publicly accused of possessing an alimentary
canal twelve inches longer than that of other men, returned to the
vegetable soup that was waiting for him.
Two of the most important balloonists—two only—did not seem to think of
returning so soon to their domicile. They availed themselves of the
opportunity to discuss the question with more than usual acrimony.
These were the irreconcilables, Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans, the
president and secretary of the Weldon Institute.
At the door of the club the valet Frycollin waited for Uncle Prudent,
his master, and at last he went after him, though he cared but little
for the subject which had set the two colleagues at loggerheads.
It is only an euphemism that the verb “discuss” can be used to express
the way in which the duet between the president and secretary was being
performed. As a matter of fact they were in full wrangle with an energy
born of their old rivalry.
“No, Sir, no.” said Phil Evans. “If I had had the honor of being
president of the Weldon Institute, there never, no, never, would have
been such a scandal.”
“And what would you have done, if you had had the honor?” demanded
Uncle Prudent.
“I would have stopped the insulter before he had opened his mouth.”
“It seems to me it would have been impossible to stop him until he had
opened his mouth.” replied Uncle Prudent.
“Not in America, Sir; not in America.”
And exchanging such observations, increasing in bitterness as they
went, they walked on through the streets farther and farther from their
homes, until they reached a part of the city whence they had to go a
long way round to get back.
Frycollin followed, by no means at ease to see his master plunging into
such deserted spots. He did not like deserted spots, particularly after
midnight. In fact the darkness was profound, and the moon was only a
thin crescent just beginning its monthly life. Frycollin kept a lookout
to the left and right of him to see if he was followed. And he fancied
he could see five or six hulking follows dogging his footsteps.
Instinctively he drew nearer to his master, but not for the world would
he have dared to break in on the conversation of which the fragments
reached him.
In short it so chanced that the president and secretary of the Weldon
Institute found themselves on the road to Fairmount Park. In the full
heat of their dispute they crossed the Schuyllkill river by the famous
iron bridge. They met only a few belated wayfarers, and pressed on
across a wide open tract where the immense prairie was broken every now
and then by the patches of thick woodland—which make the park different
to any other in the world.
There Frycollin’s terror became acute, particularly as he saw the five
or six shadows gliding after him across the Schuyllkill bridge. The
pupils of his eyes broadened out to the circumference of his iris, and
his limbs seemed to diminish as if endowed with the contractility
peculiar to the mollusca and certain of the articulate; for Frycollin,
the valet, was an egregious coward.
He was a pure South Carolina Negro, with the head of a fool and the
carcass of an imbecile. Being only one and twenty, he had never been a
slave, not even by birth, but that made no difference to him. Grinning
and greedy and idle, and a magnificent poltroon, he had been the
servant of Uncle Prudent for about three years. Over and over again had
his master threatened to kick him out, but had kept him on for fear of
doing worse. With a master ever ready to venture on the most audacious
enterprises, Frycollin’s cowardice had brought him many arduous trials.
But he had some compensation. Very little had been said about his
gluttony, and still less about his laziness.
Ah, Valet Frycollin, if you could only have read the future! Why, oh
why, Frycollin, did you not remain at Boston with the Sneffels, and not
have given them up when they talked of going to Switzerland? Was not
that a much more suitable place for you than this of Uncle Prudent’s,
where danger was daily welcomed?
But here he was, and his master had become used to his faults. He had
one advantage, and that was a consideration. Although he was a Negro by
birth he did not speak like a Negro, and nothing is so irritating as
that hateful jargon in which all the pronouns are possessive and all
the verbs infinitive. Let it be understood, then, that Frycollin was a
thorough coward.
And now it was midnight, and the pale crescent of the moon began to
sink in the west behind the trees in the park. The rays streaming
fitfully through the branches made the shadows darker than ever.
Frycollin looked around him anxiously. “Brrr!” he said, “There are
those fellows there all the time. Positively they are getting nearer!
Master Uncle!” he shouted.
It was thus he called the president of the Weldon Institute, and thus
did the president desire to be called.
At the moment the dispute of the rivals had reached its maximum, and as
they hurled their epithets at each other they walked faster and faster,
and drew farther and farther away from the Schuyllkill bridge. They had
reached the center of a wide clump of trees, whose summits were just
tipped by the parting rays of the moon. Beyond the trees was a very
large clearing—an oval field, a complete amphitheater. Not a hillock
was there to hinder the gallop of the horses, not a bush to stop the
view of the spectators.
And if Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans had not been so deep in their
dispute, and had used their eyes as they were accustomed to, they would
have found the clearing was not in its usual state. Was it a flour mill
that had anchored on it during the night? It looked like it, with its
wings and sails—motionless and mysterious in the gathering gloom.
But neither the president nor the secretary of the Weldon Institute
noticed the strange modification in the landscape of Fairmount Park;
and neither did Frycollin. It seemed to him that the thieves were
approaching, and preparing for their attack; and he was seized with
convulsive fear, paralyzed in his limbs, with every hair he could boast
of on the bristle. His terror was extreme. His knees bent under him,
but he had just strength enough to exclaim for the last time, “Master
Uncle! Master Uncle!”
“What is the matter with you?” asked Uncle Prudent.
Perhaps the disputants would not have been sorry to have relieved their
fury at the expense of the unfortunate valet. But they had no time; and
neither even had he time to answer.
A whistle was heard. A flash of electric light shot across the
clearing.
A signal, doubtless? The moment had come for the deed of violence. In
less time that it takes to tell, six men came leaping across from under
the trees, two onto Uncle Prudent, two onto Phil Evans, two onto
Frycollin—there was no need for the last two, for the Negro was
incapable of defending himself. The president and secretary of the
Weldon Institute, although taken by surprise, would have resisted.
They had neither time nor strength to do so. In a second they were
rendered speechless by a gag, blind by a bandage, thrown down, pinioned
and carried bodily off across the clearing. What could they think
except that they had fallen into the hands of people who intended to
rob them? The people did nothing of the sort, however. They did not
even touch Uncle Prudent’s pockets, although, according to his custom,
they were full of paper dollars.
Within a minute of the attack, without a word being passed, Uncle
Prudent, Phil Evans, and Frycollin felt themselves laid gently down,
not on the grass, but on a sort of plank that creaked beneath them.
They were laid down side by side.
A door was shut; and the grating of a bolt in a staple told them that
they were prisoners.
Then there came a continuous buzzing, a quivering, a frrrr, with the
rrr unending.
And that was the only sound that broke the quiet of the night.
Great was the excitement next morning in Philadelphia Very early was it
known what had passed at the meeting of the Institute. Everyone knew of
the appearance of the mysterious engineer named Robur—Robur the
Conqueror—and the tumult among the balloonists, and his inexplicable
disappearance. But it was quite another thing when all the town heard
that the president and secretary of the club had also disappeared
during the night.
Long and keen was the search in the city and neighborhood! Useless! The
newspapers of Philadelphia, the newspapers of Pennsylvania, the
newspapers of the United States reported the facts and explained them
in a hundred ways, not one of which was the right one. Heavy rewards
were offered, and placards were pasted up, but all to no purpose. The
earth seemed to have opened and bodily swallowed the president and
secretary of the Weldon Institute.