A HORIZONTAL BALLOON-ASCENSION.
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.
Then I stood by the car, as a sort of guard, while he and Ned brought
out the kites, one at a time, and got them up. When each had risen to
the full height of the string, which was pretty long,--and they were
the best-behaved kites I ever saw,--Phaeton tied the string to one of
the hooks on the front of the car.
When all three were harnessed up, they lifted the fore-wheels from the
ground.
This work used up considerable time, and while it was going on, the
crowd about us was increasing by the addition of Dublin boys, who kept
coming, singly or in twos and threes, and were distinguishable by the
fact that they were all barefooted, without jackets, and had their
trousers supported by one suspender buckled around the waist like a
belt.
It seemed evident that somebody had told them about the horizontal
balloon-ascension, for they did not come as if by accident, but as if
by appointment, and made straight for the car, which they inspected
with a great deal of curiosity.
Phaeton brought out four shot-bags filled with sand, and placed them in
a row in the front of the car.
Then he brought out a rope five or six yards long, with a small
balloon-anchor fastened to it. A balloon-anchor is made of three iron
hooks placed back to back, so that the points project in three
different directions, and the three backs or shanks welded together
into one stem, which ends in a ring, through which the rope is tied.
Phaeton tied the end of the anchor-rope to the hook on the back end of
his car, coiled it up in one corner of the box, and laid the anchor on
the coil. His calculation was, that when he threw it out on the road it
would catch a little here and there in the ground, as the hooks dragged
over the surface, making the car go more slowly, till after a while it
would take a firm hold of something and bring him to a full stop.
Phaeton also brought out a small American flag, on a light staff, and
stuck it up in a place made for it, on one of the back corners of the
car.
The kites were now tugging away at the car, with a steady and strong
pull. The arrangement was, that when Phaeton was seated (on a light
board laid across the top of the car) with the steering handles in his
grasp, and all was ready, he would give the word, and I was to draw a
sharp knife across the rope that held the car to the stake.
All now was ready. Ned, who had gone down the road a short distance, to
see if any teams were coming, signalled that the coast was clear, and
Phaeton stepped into the car.
"I say," said one of the Dublin boys, "why don't you put up the stake
before we start?"
"The stake is all right," said Phaeton, just glancing over his shoulder
at it.
"Who's holding it?" said the Dublin boy.
"Don't you see, the ground is holding it?" said Phaeton, arranging the
sand-bags.
"Oh, don't try to get out of it in that way," said the Dublin boy.
"I don't understand you," said Phaeton. "What do you mean?"
"Didn't you say," said the Dublin boy, "you'd give a dollar to any boy
that could beat your machine in a mile run?"
"No," said Phaeton. "I have never said anything of the sort--nor
thought of it. Who told you so?"
"Lukey Finnerty."
"And who told Lukey Finnerty?"
"Berny Rourke."
"And who told Berny Rourke?"
"Teddy Dwyer."
"And who told Teddy Dwyer?"
"Owney Geoghegan" (pronounced Gewgan).
"And who told Owney Geoghegan?"
"Patsy Rafferty."
"And who told Patsy Rafferty?"
"Oh, never mind who told me!" broke in another Dublin boy, who, it
seems, was Patsy Rafferty. "The question is, are you going to put up
the money?"
"I never offered to put up any," said Phaeton. "And I haven't any with
me, just now, to put up."
"Then somebody's played us a trick," said Patsy.
"I'm sorry for that," said Phaeton.
"Ah, well, we don't mind--we'll run all the same," said Patsy.
"But I don't care to have you run," said Phaeton. "In fact, I'd rather
you wouldn't."
"Well, we're all ready for it," said Patsy, giving his trousers a
hitch, and tightening the suspender a little by giving another twist to
the nail that fastened it in lieu of a buckle. "And I suppose the
road's as free to us as 'tis to you?"
"Oh, certainly!" said Phaeton.
"If you haven't any money," spoke up another Dublin boy, "you might say
you'll give a ride in your car to the fellow that beats it--just to
lend a little interest to the race, you know."
Phaeton somewhat reluctantly said he would,--"although," he added, in
an undertone, "if you can beat it, I don't see why you should want to
ride in it."
Casting one more glance about, to see that all was ready, Phaeton told
me to cut the rope and let him start. Partly because he spoke in a low
tone, wishing to make as little excitement as possible, and partly
because I was watching what I considered certain suspicious movements
on the part of Monkey Roe, I did not hear or heed him.
"_Littera lapsa!_--let her slide!" roared out Holman, who saw that I
had not understood.
With a quick, nervous stroke I drew the knife across the rope.
The machine started--at first with a little jerk, then with a slow
rolling motion, gradually increasing in speed, until at the end of six
or eight rods it was under rapid headway.
The Dublin boys at first stood still, looking on in gaping admiration
at the wonder, till they suddenly remembered that they were there to
race it, when they started off after it.
Our boys naturally followed them, as we couldn't see any more of the
fun unless we kept up with it.
It was a pretty even race, and all was going on smoothly, when down the
first cross-street came a crowd of women, apparently very much excited,
many of them with sticks in their hands. The sight of our moving crowd
seemed to frenzy them, and they increased their speed, but only arrived
at the corner in time to fall in behind us.
At the same time, down the cross-road from the other direction came a
drove of cattle, pelted, pounded, and hooted at by two men and three
boys; and close behind them was Dan Rice's Circus, which had been
exhibiting for two days on the Falls Field, and was now hurrying on to
the next town. Whether it was because of the red skirts worn by many of
the women in front of them, or the rumbling of the circus so close
behind them, I did not know, but those cattle did behave in the most
frantic manner.
And so the whole caravan went roaring down the turnpike--Phaeton in his
flying car at the head, then the Dublin boys, then our boys, then the
mothers of the Dublin boys, then the drove of cattle, then the circus,
with all its wagons and paraphernalia,--the striped zebra bringing up
the rear.
[Illustration: "THE WHOLE CARAVAN WENT ROARING DOWN THE TURNPIKE."]
It soon became evident that the mothers of the Dublin boys were
proceeding on erroneous information--however they got it--and supposed
that the contest between us and their sons was not a friendly one. For
whenever one of our boys lagged behind in the race, and came within
reach of their sticks, he was pretty sure to get a sounding whack
across the shoulders. I dare say the Dublin boys would have received
the same treatment if they had not been ahead of us in the race, which
they always were, either because they were better runners, or better
prepared.
Foremost of all was Patsy Rafferty, who, by doing his prettiest, had
closed up the distance between himself and the car, and was now abreast
of it.
Phaeton became excited, and, determined not to be beaten, lightened his
car by hurriedly throwing out one of the bags of sand. Unfortunately,
it struck the ground right in front of Patsy, and the next instant he
stubbed his toes on it and went sprawling into the gutter.
When the Dublin women saw this, they probably took it as full
confirmation of the evil designs which somebody had told them we had on
their sons, and some of our boys immediately paid the penalty by
receiving a few extra whacks.
As for Patsy, he soon picked himself up and renewed the race, all the
more determined to win it because he thought Phaeton had tripped him
purposely--which I am happy to say was not true.
As we neared the railway crossing, Jack-in-the-Box was half way up the
signal-pole. Hearing the outcry, he looked down upon us, took in the
situation at a glance, then descended the pole two steps at a time,
seized his red flag, and ran up the track at lightning speed. He had
calculated that the Pacific express would arrive at the crossing just
in time to dash through some part of our procession, and as he saw it
would be useless to try to stop us, with everything crowding on behind
us, he went to flag the train and stop that. This he just succeeded in
doing, and when my section of the procession passed that given
point,--you know it is the inveterate habit of processions to pass
given points,--there stood the great locomotive stock still by Jack's
box, with its train behind it, and seemed to look down upon us like an
astonished and interested spectator.
We swept on across the track, and as there was a straight, smooth piece
of road before us, all went well till we neared the canal. There a
stupid fellow, as we afterward learned, leading home a cow he had just
bought, had tied her to the corner-post of the bridge by which the
turnpike crossed the canal, and gone into a neighboring grocery. The
cow had placed herself directly across the narrow road-way of the
bridge, and there she stood contentedly chewing her cud, entirely
ignorant of the fact that an important race was in progress, and that
she was obstructing the track.
Phaeton saw her with horror; for if he kept on, the car would run into
her--the foot-path over the bridge was too narrow for it. He threw out
his anchor, which ricochetted, as an artillerist would say. That is, it
would catch the ground for an instant, and then fly into the air,
descend in a curve, catch again, and fly up again. At last it caught on
a horse-block, stuck fast, and brought the car to a stop.
But before Phaeton could climb out, Patsy Rafferty had come up, and,
whipping out his jack-knife, cut the anchor-rope in two. In an instant
the machine was off again.
Phaeton's situation was desperate. There stood the stupid cow like an
animated toll-gate closing the bridge, and he rushing on to destruction
at the rate of a good many miles an hour, with no way to stop the
machine, and a certainty of broken bones if he jumped out.
In his agony, he half rose in the car and gave a terrific yell. The cow
started, saw him, and then clumsily but quickly swung herself around
against the truss of the bridge that divided the carriage-way from the
foot-path. But the carriage-way had been newly planked, and the planks
were not yet nailed down. As the cow stepped on the ends, four or five
of these planks were instantly tilted up like a trap door, while the
cow sank down till she was wedged between the truss and the first
sleeper or lengthwise beam (the space being not quite large enough to
let her drop through); the planks of course being held in an almost
perpendicular position between her body and the sleeper.
Into the abyss that thus suddenly yawned before him, Phaeton and his
chariot plunged.
After him went Patsy Rafferty, who on seeing the danger had laid hold
of the car and tried to stop it, but failed. Whether he jumped through,
or let himself down more cautiously by hanging from the floor of the
bridge and dropping, I did not see; but, at all events, when the
rest of us reached the tow-path by running down the embankment, the
waters of the canal had closed over both boys and the car.
At this moment another accident complicated the trouble and increased
the excitement. This was a "tow-path bridge"--one which the boat-horses
have to pass over, because at that point the tow-path changes from one
side of the canal to the other. The "Red Bird" packet-horses, coming up
at a round trot, when they reached the crown of the bridge and saw the
rushing, roaring caravan coming at them, and heard Phaeton's yell,
stopped, and stood shivering with fear. But the packet was all the
while going ahead by its own momentum, and when it had gone the length
of the tow-line, it jerked the horses over the parapet into the water,
where they floundered within a yard of the sunken machine.
The Dublin women gathered on the tow-path, and immediately set up an
unearthly wail, such as I have never heard before or since. I think
that some of them must have "cried the keen," as it is called in
Ireland.
Patsy soon emerged from beneath the wreck, hauling Phaeton out by the
hair, and as half a dozen of the boys, from both parties, were now in
the water, they had plenty of help. The bow-hand of the "Red Bird" cut
the tow-line with a hatchet,--if he had been attending to his business,
he would have done it soon enough to prevent the accident,--and the
horses, thus released, swam ashore.
Meantime the circus had stopped, and many of the men came to the scene
of the disaster, while most of the packet passengers stepped ashore and
also joined the wondering crowd.
The steersman brought a long pike-pole, with which he fished out
Phaeton's car.
Every one of the kite-strings was broken, and the kites had gone down
the sky, with that wobbling motion peculiar to what the boys call a
"kite-broke-away," to find lodgment in some distant forest or meadow.
Great was the wonderment expressed, and many were the questions asked,
as the packet passengers and the circus people crowded around the
rescued car and the dripping boys. The Dublin women were wringing out
the jackets of our boys, and talking rather fast.
A benevolent-looking old gentleman, who wore a white vest and a large
fob-chain, said, "Something ought to be done for that boy"--pointing to
Patsy Rafferty.
The Clown of the circus said "Certainly!" and taking off his hat passed
it first to the benevolent-looking old gentleman, who seemed a little
surprised, but soon recovered, and hastily dropped in ten cents.
Then the Clown passed it all around, and nearly everybody, excepting
the boys, of course, put in a little something. The Patagonian Woman of
the circus, who had very red cheeks and very round eyes, and wore a
large diamond ring on nearly every finger, gave the most of
anybody,--half a dollar,--which she borrowed of the Strong Man, who
used to lift the big iron balls on the back of his neck.
The Clown counted the money, and said there were three dollars and
eighty-four cents, and a crossed shilling, and a bogus quarter, and two
brass buttons, and a pewter temperance medal.
"Well," said he, in a solemn tone, looking down at the collection, and
then around at the people, "I should say this crowd was about an
average specimen of humanity."
I didn't see the Clown himself put in anything at all.
"Here, sonny," said he to Patsy, "we'll tie it up in your handkerchief
for you."
Patsy said he hadn't any handkerchief with him, just then; whereupon
the Patagonian Woman gave him hers--excellent people, those
Patagonians!--and the Clown tied it up with two hard knots, and Patsy
tucked it into his trousers pocket, which it caused to bulge out as if
he had just passed through 'Squire Higgins's orchard.
The boss of the circus offered to give Patsy a place, and take him
right along, at fifteen dollars a month and his board. Patsy was crazy
to go; but his mother said she couldn't spare him.
Some of the circus men brought a pole and tackle from one of their
wagons, and lifted the cow out of her uncomfortable position, after
which they replaced the planks.
"All aboard!" shouted the captain of the "Red Bird," for the tow-line
had been mended and the horses rubbed down, and all the passengers
started on a run for the boat, excepting the benevolent-looking old
gentleman, who walked very leisurely, seeming to know it would wait for
him.
"All aboard!" shouted the boss of the circus, and his people climbed
upon the wagons, whipped up the horses, and rumbled over the bridge.
The Dublin women each laid hold of one or more of their boys, and
marched them home; Lukey Finnerty's mother arguing, as they went along,
that her boy had done as much as Patsy Rafferty, and got as wet, and
therefore ought to have a share of the money.
"Oh, there's no doubt," said Mrs. Rafferty, in a gently sarcastic tone,
"but your boy has taken in a great deal of cold water. He shall have
the temperance medal."
The other women promptly took up the question, some on Mrs. Finnerty's
side and some on Mrs. Rafferty's, and thus, all talking at once, they
passed out of sight.