HOW A CHURCH FLEW A KITE.
As soon as possible, Phaeton went down town with his drawing in his
pocket, and hunted up the office of the chief engineer. This, he found,
was in the engine-house of Deluge One,--a carpeted room, nearly filled
with armchairs, having at one end a platform, on which were a sofa and
an octagonal desk. The walls were draped with flags, and bore several
mottoes, among which were "Ever Ready," "Fearless and Free," and "The
Path of Duty is the Path of Glory." Under the last was a huge silver
trumpet, hung by a red cord, with large tassels.
This was the room where the business meetings of Deluge One were held,
and where the chief engineer had his office. But the young men who were
now playing cards and smoking here, told Phaeton the chief engineer was
not in, but might be found at Shumway's.
This was a large establishment for the manufacture of clothing, and
when Phaeton had finally hunted down his man, he found him to be a
cutter,--one of several who stood at high tables and cut out garments
for the other tailors to make.
"I've come to consult you about a machine," said Phaeton.
"How did you happen to do that?" said the chief engineer, without
looking up.
"A friend of mine--a railroad man--advised me to," said Phaeton.
"Clever fellers, them railroad men," said the chief engineer; "but
what's your machine for?"
"For putting out fires," said Phaeton.
"One of them gas arrangements, I suppose," said the chief
engineer,--"dangerous to the lives of the men, and no good unless
applied in a close room before the fire begins."
"I don't know what you mean by that," said Phaeton; "but there's no gas
about mine."
The chief engineer, who all this time had gone on cutting, laid down
his shears on the pattern.
"Let's see it," said he.
Phaeton produced his drawing, spread it out before him, and explained
it.
"Why, boy," said the chief engineer, "you couldn't--and yet, perhaps,
you could--it never would--and still it might--there would be no--but
I'm not so sure about that. Let me study this thing."
He planted his elbows on the table, each side of the drawing, brought
his head down between his hands, buried his fingers in the mass of his
hair, and looked intently at the picture for some minutes.
"Where did you get this?" said he, at last.
"I drew it," said Phaeton; "it's my invention."
"And what do you want me to do about it?"
"I thought perhaps you could help me in getting it into use."
"Just so! Well, leave it with me, and I'll think it over, and you can
call again in a few days."
Phaeton did call again, and was told that the chief engineer was
holding a meeting in the engine-house. Going over to the engine-house,
he found it full of men, and was unable to get in. The next time he
called, the chief engineer told him he "hadn't had time to look it over
yet." Next time he was "not in." And so it seemed likely to go on
forever.
But meanwhile something else took place, which called out Phaeton's
inventive powers for exercise in another direction.
It happened that the pastor of the Baptist church, in talking to the
Sunday-school, dwelt especially on Sabbath-breaking, and mentioned
kite-flying as one of the worst forms of it.
"This very day," said he, "as I was coming to church, I saw three
wicked boys flying kites in the public street, and one of them sits in
this room now."
A boy who knew whom the pastor referred to, pointed out Monkey Roe.
As many of the school as could, turned and stared at Monkey. The truth
was, he had not been flying a kite; but on his way to church he passed
two boys who were. It was the universal practice--at that time and in
that country, at least--when a boy was flying a kite, for every other
boy who passed to ask "how she pulled?" and take the string in his hand
a moment to see.
If she pulled hard, the flyer was rather proud to have his friends ask
the question and make the test. In fact, I suppose it would hardly have
been polite not to ask.
Monkey had just asked this interesting question, and had the string in
his hand, when the pastor happened to pass by and see the group. Of
course it would have been well if he could have stood up in the
Sunday-school, and simply told the fact. But he was not the sort of boy
who could do such a thing at any time, and he was especially unable to
now, when he was taken by surprise, and felt that an outrage had been
committed against his character and reputation.
But perhaps the pastor was not much at fault. He had probably been born
and brought up in a breezeless country where kite-flying was unknown,
and therefore was ignorant of its amenities.
Just before the school closed, Monkey was struck with a mischievous
idea.
"I prophesy," said he to the pastor's son, who sat next to him, "that
this church will fly a kite all day next Sunday."
"I should be greatly delighted to see it," answered the pastor's son.
Early Monday morning, Monkey went over to Dublin, and found Owney
Geoghegan, who had chased and recovered one of the kites that drew
Phaeton's car. Monkey obtained the kite, by trading a jack-knife for
it, and carried it home. Every day that week, as soon as school was
out, he took it to a large common on the outskirts of the town, and
flew it. He thoroughly studied the disposition of that kite. He
experimented continually, and found just what arrangement of the bands
would make it pull most evenly, just what length of tail would make it
stand most steadily, and just what weight of string it would carry
best.
It occurred to him that an appropriate motto from Scripture would look
well, and he applied to Jack-in-the-Box for one, taking care not to let
him know what he wanted it for. Jack suggested one, and Monkey borrowed
a marking-pot and brush, and inscribed it in bold letters across the
face of the kite.
Finally he procured a good ball of string, a long and strong fish-line,
and a small, flat, light wooden hoop, which he carefully covered with
tin-foil, obtained at the tobacco-shop.
Saturday night Monkey's mother knew he was out, but not what he was
about, and wondered why he stayed so late. If she had gone in search of
him, she might have found him in Independence square, moving about in a
very mysterious manner. The Baptist church, which had a tall, slender
spire, ending in a lightning-rod with a single point, faced this
square.
It was a bright, moonlight night, and it must have been after eleven
o'clock when Monkey walked into the square with his kite, accompanied
by Owney Geoghegan.
Monkey laid the kite flat on the ground near one corner of the square,
stationed Owney by it, and then walked slowly to the opposite corner,
unwinding the string as he went.
After looking around cautiously and making sure that nobody was
crossing the square, he raised his hand and gave a silent signal. Owney
hoisted the kite, Monkey ran a few rods, and up she went. He rapidly
let out the entire ball of string, and she sailed away into space till
she hovered like a night-hawk over the farthest corner of the sleeping
city.
The Sunday-school room was hung round with mottoes, printed on
shield-shaped tablets, and Monkey had made copies of some of them on
similarly shaped pieces of paper, which he fastened upon the string at
intervals as he let the kite up.
Among them I remember "Look aloft!" "Time flies!" and "Aspire!"
Then Monkey took up the hoop, and tied the string through a hole that
was bored near one edge. Through a similar hole on the opposite side of
the hoop, and near the same edge, he tied about a yard of comparatively
weak string. To the end of this he tied his long fish-line, which he
carefully paid out. The kite sailed still higher and farther away, of
course carrying the hoop up into mid-air, where it was plainly visible
as the tin-foil glittered in the moonlight.
So far, Monkey's task had all been plain mechanical work, sure of
success if only performed with care. But now he had arrived at the
difficult part of it, where a great amount of patience and no little
sleight-of-hand were necessary. The thing to be done was, to let out
just enough string for the kite to carry the hoop exactly as high as
the top of the steeple.
It took a vast deal of letting out, and winding in, walking forward,
and walking backward, to accomplish this, but at last it seemed to be
done. Then he must walk back and forth till he had brought the hoop not
only on a level with the top of the spire, but directly over it, which
took more time. As the strings were fastened at one edge of the hoop,
of course it remained constantly horizontal.
When, at last, Monkey had brought it exactly over the point of the
lightning-rod, he carefully and steadily brought the hand in which he
held the string down to the ground. The hoop encircled and slid down
the rod, and, after two hours' hard work, his task was virtually done.
He had now only to walk up to the church, and give a steady, hard,
downward pull at the fish-line, when the weak piece of string that
fastened it to the hoop snapped in two. Winding up the fish-line, he
slipped it into his pocket, looked about once more, said good-night to
Owney, walked rapidly home, and went softly up to bed.
Sunday morning dawned beautifully, and everybody in town, who ever went
to meeting at all, prepared for church. As the time for services
approached, the bells rang out melodiously; down every street of
residences, door after door opened, as individuals and families stepped
forth, attired in their best, and soon the sidewalks were full of
people passing in every direction.
Somebody discovered the kite, and pointed it out to somebody else, who
stopped to look at it, and attracted the attention of others; and thus
the news spread. A few groups paused to gaze and wonder, but most of
the people passed on quietly to their respective places of worship.
[Illustration: THE KITE ON THE STEEPLE.]
Somebody told the Baptist pastor of it as he was ascending the
pulpit-stairs.
"I will have it attended to," said he; and, calling the sexton, he
ordered him to go into the steeple at once and take down the kite.
Easy to say, but impossible to do. The highest point the sexton could
reach was more than forty feet below the top of the spire, and there he
could only poke his head out at a little trap-door. The appearance of
his head at this door was the signal for a derisive shout from a group
of boys on the sidewalk.
By the time the services in the various churches were over, and the
people on their way home, nearly everybody in town had heard of the
phenomenon. They gathered in small groups, and gazed at it, and talked
about it. These groups continually grew larger, and frequently two or
three of them coalesced. They soon found that the best point to view it
from--considering the position of the sun, and other circumstances--was
the southwest corner of the square; and here they gradually gathered,
till there was a vast throng, with upturned faces, gazing at the kite
and its appendages, and wondering how it got there.
It was amusing to hear the wild conjectures and grave theories that
were put forth.
One man thought it must have been an accident. "Probably some boy in a
neighboring town," he said, "was flying the kite, when it broke away,
and, as the string dragged along, it happened to catch somehow on that
steeple."
Another said he had read that in China grown-up people flew kites, and
were very expert at it. "Depend upon it," said he, solemnly, "you'll
find there's a Chinaman in town."
Another presumed it was some new and ingenious method of advertising.
"Probably at a certain hour," said he, "that thing will burst, and
scatter over the town a shower of advertisements of a new
baking-powder, warranted to raise your bread as high as a kite, or some
other humbug."
Still another sagacious observer maintained that it might be merely an
optical illusion,--a thing having no real existence. "It may be a
mirage," said he; "or perhaps some practical joker has made a sort of
magic-lantern that projects such an image in mid-air."
Patsy Rafferty happened to see a lady sitting at her window, and
looking at the kite through an opera-glass. Immediately he was struck
with an idea, and ran off home at his best speed. His mother was out
visiting a neighbor; but he didn't need to call her home; he knew where
she kept his money.
Going straight to the pantry, he climbed on a chair and took down what
in its day had been an elegant china teapot, but was now useless,
because the spout was broken off. Thrusting in his hand, he drew out
the money which the Clown had collected for him from the crowd on the
tow-path,--every cent of it, except the crossed shilling, the bogus
quarter, the brass buttons, and the temperance medal.
Patsy then ran to a pawnbroker's shop, before the window of which he
had often stood and studied the "unredeemed pledges" there displayed.
The pawnbroker, whose Sabbath was the seventh day, sat in the open
door, smoking a pipe.
"How much for a spy glass?" said Patsy, as soon as he could get his
breath.
"Come inside," said the pawnbroker. "This one I shall sell you for five
dollars--very cheap." And he handed Patsy an old binocular, which
really had very powerful glasses, though the tubes were much battered.
Patsy pointed it out of the door, and looked through it.
"Oh, Moses!" said he, as a dog larger than an elephant ran across the
field of vision.
"Sir?" said the pawnbroker.
"I can't buy it," said Patsy, with a sigh, laying it upon the counter.
"Why not?" said the pawnbroker.
"I haven't enough money," said Patsy.
"How much have you got?" said the pawnbroker.
"Three dollars and eighty-four cents," said Patsy.
"And you don't get some more next Saturday night?" said the pawnbroker.
"No," said Patsy.
"Well, you are a good boy," said the pawnbroker; "I can see that
already; so I shall sell you this fine glass for three dollars and
eighty-four cents,--the very lowest price. I could not do it, but I
shall hope that I trade with you again some day."
Patsy put down the money in a hurry, took the glass, and left the shop.
He went to where the crowd was gazing at the kite, took a long look at
it himself, and then began renting out the glass at ten cents a look,
at which price he found plenty of eager customers.
When they looked through the glass, they read this legend on the face
of the kite:
Ye shall have in abomination
the kite after his kind.
LEVIT. XI. 13, 14.
When Teddy Dwyer saw the success of Patsy's speculation, he thought he
also had an idea, and running home, he soon reappeared on the square
with a large piece of newly smoked glass. But nobody seemed to care to
view the wonder through smoked glass, though he offered it at the low
price of "wan cent a look," and Teddy's investment was hardly
remunerative.
Patsy, before the day was over, amassed nearly thirteen dollars. He
carried it all home, and without saying anything to his mother, slipped
it into the disabled teapot, where the money collected for him by the
Clown had been kept.
The next day he quietly asked his mother if he might have ten cents of
his money to spend.
"No, Patsy," she answered, "I'm keeping that ag'in the day you go into
business."
But Mrs. Rourke was present, and she pleaded so eloquently Patsy's
right to have "a little enjoyment of what he had earned," that his
mother relented, and went to get it.
"Either my hands are getting weak," said she, as she lifted it down,
"or this teapot has grown heavy."
She thrust her hand into it, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and
then turned it upside down upon the table, whereupon there was a
tableau in the Rafferty family.
"I often heard," said Mrs. Rafferty, "that money breeds money, but I
never knew it bred so fast as that."
She more than half believed in fairies, and was proceeding to account
for it as their work, when Patsy burst out laughing, and then, of
course, had to tell the story of how the money came there.
"And so you got it be goin' after pawnbrokers, and be workin' on
Sunday?" said his mother.
Patsy confessed that he did.
"Then I'll have none of it," said she, and opening the stove, was about
to cast in a handful of the coins, when she hesitated.
"After all," said she, "'tisn't the money that's done wrong; why should
I punish it?"
So she put it back into the teapot, and adopted a less expensive though
more painful method of teaching her son to respect the Sabbath.
In the bitterness of the moment, Patsy firmly resolved that when he was
a millionnaire--as he expected to be some day--he wouldn't give his
mother a single dime. He afterward so far relented, however, as to
admit to himself that he might let her have twenty thousand dollars,
rather than see her suffer, but not a cent more.