gentleman into the same carriage with the teacher of Arabic, for he
was a Turk, sitting with a fez on his head, on the back seat! They
glared at each other, and began to assail each other in every language
they knew, none of which Mr. Peterkin could understand. It might be
Russian; it might be Arabic. It was easy to understand that they would
never consent to sit in the same carriage. Mr. Peterkin was in
despair; he had forgotten about the Russian war! What a mistake to
have invited the Turk!
[Illustration]
Quite a crowd collected on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. But the
French gentleman politely, but stiffly, invited the Russian to go with
him in the first carryall. Here was another difficulty. For the German
professor was quietly ensconced on the back seat! As soon as the
French gentleman put his foot on the step and saw him he addressed him
in such forcible language that the German professor got out of the
door the other side, and came round on the sidewalk and took him by
the collar. Certainly the German and French gentlemen could not be
put together, and more crowd collected!
[Illustration]
Agamemnon, however, had happily studied up the German word "Herr," and
he applied it to the German, inviting him by signs to take a seat in
the other carryall. The German consented to sit by the Turk, as they
neither of them could understand the other; and at last they started,
Mr. Peterkin with the Italian by his side, and the French and Russian
teachers behind, vociferating to each other in languages unknown to
Mr. Peterkin, while he feared they were not perfectly in harmony; so
he drove home as fast as possible. Agamemnon had a silent party. The
Spaniard by his side was a little moody, while the Turk and the German
behind did not utter a word.
[Illustration]
At last they reached the house, and were greeted by Mrs. Peterkin and
Elizabeth Eliza, Mrs. Peterkin with her llama lace shawl over her
shoulders, as a tribute to the Spanish teacher. Mr. Peterkin was
careful to take his party in first, and deposit them in a distant part
of the library, far from the Turk or the German, even putting the
Frenchman and Russian apart.
Solomon John found the Italian dictionary, and seated himself by his
Italian; Agamemnon, with the German dictionary, by the German. The
little boys took their copy of the "Arabian Nights" to the Turk. Mr.
Peterkin attempted to explain to the Russian that he had no Russian
dictionary, as he had hoped to learn Sanscrit of him, while Mrs.
Peterkin was trying to inform her teacher that she had no books in
Spanish. She got over all fears of the Inquisition, he looked so sad,
and she tried to talk a little, using English words, but very slowly,
and altering the accent as far as she knew how. The Spaniard bowed,
looked gravely interested, and was very polite.
[Illustration]
Elizabeth Eliza, meanwhile, was trying her grammar phrases with the
Parisian. She found it easier to talk French than to understand him.
But he understood perfectly her sentences. She repeated one of her
vocabularies, and went on with, "_J'ai le livre._" "_As-tu le pain?_"
"_L'enfant a une poire._" He listened with great attention, and
replied slowly. Suddenly she started after making out one of his
sentences, and went to her mother to whisper, "They have made the
mistake you feared. They think they are invited to lunch! _He_ has
just been thanking me for our politeness in inviting them to
_dejeuner_,--that means breakfast!"
"They have not had their breakfast!" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin, looking
at her Spaniard; "he does look hungry! What shall we do?"
[Illustration]
Elizabeth Eliza was consulting her father. What should they do? How
should they make them understand that they invited them to teach, not
lunch. Elizabeth Eliza begged Agamemnon to look out "_apprendre_" in
the dictionary. It must mean to teach. Alas, they found it means both
to teach and to learn! What should they do? The foreigners were now
sitting silent in their different corners. The Spaniard grew more and
more sallow. What if he should faint? The Frenchman was rolling up
each of his mustaches to a point as he gazed at the German. What if
the Russian should fight the Turk? What if the German should be
exasperated by the airs of the Parisian?
"We must give them something to eat," said Mr. Peterkin, in a low
tone. "It would calm them."
"If I only knew what they were used to eating," said Mrs. Peterkin.
Solomon John suggested that none of them knew what the others were
used to eating, and they might bring in anything.
Mrs. Peterkin hastened out with hospitable intents. Amanda could make
good coffee. Mr. Peterkin had suggested some American dish. Solomon
John sent a little boy for some olives.
It was not long before the coffee came in, and a dish of baked beans.
Next, some olives and a loaf of bread, and some boiled eggs, and some
bottles of beer. The effect was astonishing. Every man spoke his own
tongue, and fluently. Mrs. Peterkin poured out coffee for the
Spaniard, while he bowed to her. They all liked beer; they all liked
olives. The Frenchman was fluent about "_les moeurs Americaines_."
Elizabeth Eliza supposed he alluded to their not having set any table.
The Turk smiled; the Russian was voluble. In the midst of the clang of
the different languages, just as Mr. Peterkin was again repeating,
under cover of the noise of many tongues, "How shall we make them
understand that we want them to teach?"--at this very moment the door
was flung open, and there came in the lady from Philadelphia, that day
arrived, her first call of the season.
She started back in terror at the tumult of so many different
languages. The family, with joy, rushed to meet her. All together they
called upon her to explain for them. Could she help them? Could she
tell the foreigners they wanted to take lessons? Lessons? They had no
sooner uttered the word than their guests all started up with faces
beaming with joy. It was the one English word they all knew! They had
come to Boston to give lessons! The Russian traveller had hoped to
learn English in this way. The thought pleased them more than the
_dejeuner_. Yes, gladly would they give lessons. The Turk smiled at
the idea. The first step was taken. The teachers knew they were
expected to teach.
MODERN IMPROVEMENTS AT THE PETERKINS'.
Agamemnon felt that it became necessary for him to choose a
profession. It was important on account of the little boys. If he
should make a trial of several different professions he could find out
which would be the most likely to be successful, and it would then be
easy to bring up the little boys in the right direction.
Elizabeth Eliza agreed with this. She thought the family occasionally
made mistakes, and had come near disgracing themselves. Now was their
chance to avoid this in future by giving the little boys a proper
education.
Solomon John was almost determined to become a doctor. From earliest
childhood he had practised writing recipes on little slips of paper.
Mrs. Peterkin, to be sure, was afraid of infection. She could not bear
the idea of his bringing one disease after the other into the family
circle. Solomon John, too, did not like sick people. He thought he
might manage it if he should not have to see his patients while they
were sick. If he could only visit them when they were recovering, and
when the danger of infection was over, he would really enjoy making
calls.
[Illustration]
He should have a comfortable doctor's chaise, and take one of the
little boys to hold his horse while he went in, and he thought he
could get through the conversational part very well, and feeling the
pulse, perhaps looking at the tongue. He should take and read all the
newspapers, and so be thoroughly acquainted with the news of the day
to talk of. But he should not like to be waked up at night to visit.
Mr. Peterkin thought that would not be necessary. He had seen signs on
doors of "Night Doctor," and certainly it would be as convenient to
have a sign of "Not a Night Doctor."
Solomon John thought he might write his advice to those of his
patients who were dangerously ill, from whom there was danger of
infection. And then Elizabeth Eliza agreed that his prescriptions
would probably be so satisfactory that they would keep his patients
well,--not too well to do without a doctor, but needing his recipes.
Agamemnon was delayed, however, in his choice of a profession, by a
desire he had to become a famous inventor. If he could only invent
something important, and get out a patent, he would make himself known
all over the country. If he could get out a patent he would be set up
for life, or at least as long as the patent lasted, and it would be
well to be sure to arrange it to last through his natural life.
Indeed, he had gone so far as to make his invention. It had been
suggested by their trouble with a key, in their late moving to their
new house. He had studied the matter over a great deal. He looked it
up in the Encyclopaedia, and had spent a day or two in the Public
Library, in reading about Chubb's Lock and other patent locks.
But his plan was more simple. It was this: that all keys should be
made alike! He wondered it had not been thought of before; but so it
was, Solomon John said, with all inventions, with Christopher
Columbus, and everybody. Nobody knew the invention till it was
invented, and then it looked very simple. With Agamemnon's plan you
need have but one key, that should fit everything! It should be a
medium-sized key, not too large to carry. It ought to answer for a
house door, but you might open a portmanteau with it. How much less
danger there would be of losing one's keys if there were only one to
lose!
[Illustration]
Mrs. Peterkin thought it would be inconvenient if their father were
out, and she wanted to open the jam-closet for the little boys. But
Agamemnon explained that he did not mean there should be but one key
in the family, or an a town,--you might have as many as you pleased,
only they should all be alike.
[Illustration]
Elizabeth Eliza felt it would be a great convenience,--they could keep
the front door always locked, yet she could open it with the key of
her upper drawer; that she was sure to have with her. And Mrs.
Peterkin felt it might be a convenience if they had one on each story,
so that they need not go up and down for it.
Mr. Peterkin studied all the papers and advertisements, to decide
about the lawyer whom they should consult, and at last, one morning,
they went into town to visit a patent-agent.
Elizabeth Eliza took the occasion to make a call upon the lady from
Philadelphia, but she came back hurriedly to her mother.
"I have had a delightful call," she said; "but--perhaps I was wrong--I
could not help, in conversation, speaking of Agamemnon's proposed
patent. I ought not to have mentioned it, as such things are kept
profound secrets; they say women always do tell things; I suppose that
is the reason."
"But where is the harm?" asked Mrs. Peterkin. "I'm sure you can trust
the lady from Philadelphia."
Elizabeth Eliza then explained that the lady from Philadelphia had
questioned the plan a little when it was told her, and had suggested
that "if everybody had the same key there would be no particular use
in a lock."
[Illustration]
"Did you explain to her," said Mrs. Peterkin, "that we were not all to
have the same keys?"
"I couldn't quite understand her," said Elizabeth Eliza, "but she
seemed to think that burglars and other people might come in if the
keys were the same."
"Agamemnon would not sell his patent to burglars!" said Mrs. Peterkin,
indignantly.
"But about other people," said Elizabeth Eliza; "there is my upper
drawer; the little boys might open it at Christmas-time,--and their
presents in it!"
"And I am not sure that I could trust Amanda," said Mrs. Peterkin,
considering.
Both she and Elizabeth Eliza felt that Mr. Peterkin ought to know what
the lady from Philadelphia had suggested. Elizabeth Eliza then
proposed going into town, but it would take so long she might not
reach them in time. A telegram would be better, and she ventured to
suggest using the Telegraph Alarm.
[Illustration]
For, on moving into their new house, they had discovered it was
provided with all the modern improvements. This had been a
disappointment to Mrs. Peterkin, for she was afraid of them, since
their experience the last winter, when their water-pipes were frozen
up. She had been originally attracted to the house by an old pump at
the side, which had led her to believe there were no modern
improvements. It had pleased the little boys, too. They liked to pump
the handle up and down, and agreed to pump all the water needed, and
bring it into the house.
[Illustration]
There was an old well, with a picturesque well-sweep, in a corner by
the barn. Mrs. Peterkin was frightened by this at first. She was
afraid the little boys would be falling in every day. And they showed
great fondness for pulling the bucket up and down. It proved, however,
that the well was dry. There was no water in it; so she had some moss
thrown down, and an old feather-bed, for safety, and the old well was
a favorite place of amusement.
The house, it had proved, was well furnished with bath-rooms, and
"set-waters" everywhere. Water-pipes and gas-pipes all over the house;
and a hack-, telegraph-, and fire-alarm, with a little knob for each.
Mrs. Peterkin was very anxious. She feared the little boys would be
summoning somebody all the time, and it was decided to conceal from
them the use of the knobs, and the card of directions at the side was
destroyed. Agamemnon had made one of his first inventions to help
this. He had arranged a number of similar knobs to be put in rows in
different parts of the house, to appear as if they were intended for
ornament, and had added some to the original knobs. Mrs. Peterkin felt
more secure, and Agamemnon thought of taking out a patent for this
invention.
It was, therefore, with some doubt that Elizabeth Eliza proposed
sending a telegram to her father. Mrs. Peterkin, however, was pleased
with the idea. Solomon John was out, and the little boys were at
school, and she herself would touch the knob, while Elizabeth Eliza
should write the telegram.
"I think it is the fourth knob from the beginning," she said, looking
at one of the rows of knobs.
Elizabeth Eliza was sure of this. Agamemnon, she believed, had put
three extra knobs at each end.
[Illustration]
"But which is the end, and which is the beginning,--the top or the
bottom?" Mrs. Peterkin asked hopelessly.
Still she bravely selected a knob, and Elizabeth Eliza hastened with
her to look out for the messenger. How soon should they see the
telegraph boy?
They seemed to have scarcely reached the window, when a terrible noise
was heard, and down the shady street the white horses of the
fire-brigade were seen rushing at a fatal speed!
It was a terrific moment!
"I have touched the fire-alarm," Mrs. Peterkin exclaimed.
Both rushed to open the front door in agony. By this time the
fire-engines were approaching.
"Do not be alarmed," said the chief engineer; "the furniture shall be
carefully covered, and we will move all that is necessary."
"Move again!" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin, in agony.
Elizabeth Eliza strove to explain that she was only sending a telegram
to her father, who was in Boston.
"It is not important," said the head engineer; "the fire will all be
out before it could reach him."
[Illustration]
And he ran upstairs, for the engines were beginning to play upon the
roof.
Mrs. Peterkin rushed to the knobs again hurriedly; there was more
necessity for summoning Mr. Peterkin home.
"Write a telegram to your father," she said to Elizabeth Eliza, "to
'come home directly.'"
"That will take but three words," said Elizabeth Eliza, with presence
of mind, "and we need ten. I was just trying to make them out."
"What has come now?" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin, and they hurried again
to the window, to see a row of carriages coming down the street.
[Illustration]
"I must have touched the carriage-knob," cried Mrs. Peterkin, "and I
pushed it half-a-dozen times I felt so anxious!"
Six hacks stood before the door. All the village boys were assembling.
Even their own little boys had returned from school, and were showing
the firemen the way to the well.
Again Mrs. Peterkin rushed to the knobs, and a fearful sound arose.
She had touched the burglar-alarm!
The former owner of the house, who had a great fear of burglars, had
invented a machine of his own, which he had connected with a knob. A
wire attached to the knob moved a spring that could put in motion a
number of watchmen's rattles, hidden under the eaves of the piazza.
[Illustration]
All these were now set a-going, and their terrible din roused those of
the neighborhood who had not before assembled around the house. At
this moment Elizabeth Eliza met the chief engineer.
"You need not send for more help," he said; "we have all the engines
in town here, and have stirred up all the towns in the neighborhood;
there's no use in springing any more alarms. I can't find the fire
yet, but we have water pouring all over the house."
Elizabeth Eliza waved her telegram in the air.
"We are only trying to send a telegram to my father and brother, who
are in town," she endeavored to explain.
"If it is necessary," said the chief engineer, "you might send it down
in one of the hackney carriages. I see a number standing before the
door. We'd better begin to move the heavier furniture, and some of you
women might fill the carriages with smaller things."
Mrs. Peterkin was ready to fall into hysterics. She controlled herself
with a supreme power, and hastened to touch another knob.
Elizabeth Eliza corrected her telegram, and decided to take the advice
of the chief engineer and went to the door to give her message to one
of the hackmen, when she saw a telegraph boy appear. Her mother had
touched the right knob. It was the fourth from the beginning; but the
beginning was at the other end!
[Illustration]
She went out to meet the boy, when, to her joy, she saw behind him her
father and Agamemnon. She clutched her telegram, and hurried toward
them.
Mr. Peterkin was bewildered. Was the house on fire? If so, where were
the flames?
He saw the row of carriages. Was there a funeral, or a wedding? Who
was dead? Who was to be married?
He seized the telegram that Elizabeth Eliza reached to him, and read
it aloud.
"Come to us directly--the house is NOT on fire!"
The chief engineer was standing on the steps.
"The house not on fire!" he exclaimed. "What are we all summoned for?"
"It is a mistake," cried Elizabeth Eliza, wringing her hands. "We
touched the wrong knob; we wanted the telegraph boy!"
"We touched all the wrong knobs," exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin, from the
house.
The chief engineer turned directly to give counter-directions, with a
few exclamations of disgust, as the bells of distant fire-engines were
heard approaching.
Solomon John appeared at this moment, and proposed taking one of the
carriages, and going for a doctor for his mother, for she was now
nearly ready to fall into hysterics, and Agamemnon thought to send a
telegram down by the boy, for the evening papers, to announce that the
Peterkins' house had not been on fire.
The crisis of the commotion had reached its height. The beds of
flowers, bordered with dark-colored leaves, were trodden down by the
feet of the crowd that had assembled.
The chief engineer grew more and more indignant, as he sent his men to
order back the fire-engines from the neighboring towns. The collection
of boys followed the procession as it went away. The fire-brigade
hastily removed covers from some of the furniture, restored the rest
to their places, and took away their ladders. Many neighbors remained,
but Mr. Peterkin hastened into the house to attend to Mrs. Peterkin.
Elizabeth Eliza took an opportunity to question her father, before he
went in, as to the success of their visit to town.
"We saw all the patent-agents," answered Mr. Peterkin, in a hollow
whisper. "Not one of them will touch the patent, or have anything to
do with it."
Elizabeth Eliza looked at Agamemnon, as he walked silently into the
house. She would not now speak to him of the patent; but she recalled
some words of Solomon John. When they were discussing the patent he
had said that many an inventor had grown gray before his discovery was
acknowledged by the public. Others might reap the harvest, but it
came, perhaps, only when he was going to his grave.
Elizabeth Eliza looked at Agamemnon reverently, and followed him
silently into the house.
AGAMEMNON'S CAREER.
There had apparently been some mistake in Agamemnon's education. He
had been to a number of colleges, indeed, but he had never completed
his course in any one. He had continually fallen into some difficulty
with the authorities. It was singular, for he was of an inquiring
mind, and had always tried to find out what would be expected of him,
but had never hit upon the right thing.
Solomon John thought the trouble might be in what they called the
elective system, where you were to choose what study you might take.
This had always bewildered Agamemnon a good deal.
"And how was a feller to tell," Solomon John had asked, "whether he
wanted to study a thing before he tried it? It might turn out awful
hard!"
Agamemnon had always been fond of reading, from his childhood up. He
was at his book all day long. Mrs. Peterkin had imagined he would come
out a great scholar, because she could never get him away from his
books.
And so it was in his colleges; he was always to be found in the
library, reading and reading. But they were always the wrong books.
For instance: the class were required to prepare themselves on the
Spartan war. This turned Agamemnon's attention to the Fenians, and to
study the subject he read up on "Charles O'Malley," and "Harry
Lorrequer," and some later novels of that sort, which did not help him
on the subject required, yet took up all his time, so that he found
himself unfitted for anything else when the examinations came. In
consequence he was requested to leave.
Agamemnon always missed in his recitations, for the same reason that
Elizabeth Eliza did not get on in school, because he was always asked
the questions he did not know. It seemed provoking; if the professors
had only asked something else! But they always hit upon the very
things he had not studied up.
Mrs. Peterkin felt this was encouraging, for Agamemnon knew the things
they did not know in colleges. In colleges they were willing to take
for students only those who already knew certain things. She thought
Agamemnon might be a professor in a college for those students who
didn't know those things.
"I suppose these professors could not have known a great deal," she
added, "or they would not have asked you so many questions; they would
have told you something."
Agamemnon had left another college on account of a mistake he had
made with some of his classmates. They had taken a great deal of
trouble to bring some wood from a distant wood-pile to make a bonfire
with, under one of the professors' windows. Agamemnon had felt it
would be a compliment to the professor.
It was with bonfires that heroes had been greeted on their return from
successful wars. In this way beacon-lights had been kindled upon lofty
heights, that had inspired mariners seeking their homes after distant
adventures. As he plodded back and forward he imagined himself some
hero of antiquity. He was reading "Plutarch's Lives" with deep
interest. This had been recommended at a former college, and he was
now taking it up in the midst of his French course. He fancied, even,
that some future Plutarch was growing up in Lynn, perhaps, who would
write of this night of suffering, and glorify its heroes.
For himself he took a severe cold and suffered from chilblains, in
consequence of going back and forward through the snow, carrying the
wood.
But the flames of the bonfire caught the blinds of the professor's
room, and set fire to the building, and came near burning up the whole
institution. Agamemnon regretted the result as much as his
predecessor, who gave him his name, must have regretted that other
bonfire, on the shores of Aulis, that deprived him of a daughter.