AN EXTRA FOURTH-OF-JULY.
Deacon Graham had predicted that "the wind would go down with the sun,"
and then the kite would fall. But the prediction was not fulfilled: at
least there seemed to be a steady breeze up where the kite was, and in
the moon-lighted evening it swayed gently to and fro, tugging at its
string, and gracefully waving its pendulous tail. All the young people
in town appeared to be walking out to see it, and the evening services
were very slimly attended.
Monday morning the trustees of the church began to take vigorous
measures for the suppression of the mysterious kite.
The cart of Hook-and-Ladder No. 1 was wheeled up in front of the
church, and the two longest ladders taken off, spliced together, and
raised with great labor. But they fell far short of reaching any point
from which the hoop that held the kite could be touched.
"I hope you are satisfied," said the foreman to the trustees. "I told
you them ladders wouldn't reach it, nor no others that you can get."
"Yes, I see," said Deacon Graham. "I supposed the ladders were longer.
But we're very much obliged to you and your men."
"You're welcome," said the foreman, as the men replaced the ladders on
the cart. "And by the way, Deacon, if you was thinking of sending a
dish of oysters and a cup of coffee around to the engine-house, I may
say that my men prefer Saddle-rocks and Java."
"Just so!" said the Deacon. "I'll send Saddle-rocks and Java, if I send
any."
One of the trustees suggested that the most muscular of the firemen
might go up in the steeple, open the little trap-door, and from there
throw clubs at the string.
One of the firemen procured some sticks, about such as boys like for
throwing into chestnut-trees, and went up and tried it. But the door
was so far below the top of the steeple, and the position so awkward to
throw from, that he did not even hit the string, and after one of the
clubs in descending had crashed through the stained-glass skylight of a
neighboring mansion, this experiment was abandoned.
The next consisted in firing with rifles at the kite, the hoop, and the
string. The trustees looked up two amateur huntsmen for this purpose,
and furnished a small amount of ammunition.
As there was a city ordinance against discharging firearms "in any
street, lane, or alley, park, or square of the said city," the trustees
were obliged to go first to the Mayor and get a suspension of the
ordinance for this special purpose, which was readily granted.
As soon as the two huntsmen saw this in black and white, they fired
half a dozen shots. But they did not succeed in severing the string or
smashing the hoop. Like all failures, however, they gave excellent
reasons for their want of success, explaining to the trustees that
there was a difference between a covey of partridges and a small hoop
on the top of a steeple. Their explanation was so lucid that I feel
confident the trustees must have understood it.
"In rifle-shooting," added one of the huntsmen, "you always have to
make allowance for the wind, and we can't tell how it may be blowing at
the top of that spire till we learn by experimental shots. But we shall
get the range after awhile; it's only a question of time."
What little ammunition they had with them was soon exhausted, and
Deacon Graham, who was very excitable and over-sensitive as to anything
connected with the church, rushed down town to buy some more.
"How much powder will you have?" said the clerk. "Enough to shoot a
kite off from a steeple," said the Deacon.
The clerk couldn't tell exactly how much that would take--had not been
in the habit of selling powder for that purpose.
"Give me enough, at any rate," said the Deacon.
The clerk suggested that the best way would be to send up a small keg
and let them use as much as was necessary, the remainder to be
returned. To this the Deacon assented, and accordingly a small keg of
powder, with a liberal quantity of bullets and caps, was sent up at
once,--all to be charged to the account of the church militant.
At the first shot the boys had begun to gather. When they found what
was going on, that the ordinance was suspended, and that ammunition was
as free as the gospel, they disappeared one after another, and soon
reappeared carrying all sorts of shot-guns, muskets, and even
horse-pistols and revolvers. No boy who could get a fire-arm failed to
bring it out. Most of us had to hunt for them; for, so far as I know,
not one of our boys was guilty of the folly of habitually carrying a
pistol in his pocket.
The powder and bullets were on the church steps, where all who wished
to aid in the good work could help themselves; and within half an hour
from the time the ball opened, at least thirty happy and animated boys
were loading and firing.
The unsectarian spirit of those boys was beautiful to behold. They were
from all denominations, and yet every one of them was both willing and
eager to burn Baptist powder in firing Baptist bullets at a Baptist
steeple.
The noise had attracted the townspeople, and several hundred of them
now stood looking on at the strange spectacle.
Patsy Rafferty ran home to draw some money from his teapot-bank, but
found the cashier present, and hesitated. However, he soon plucked up
courage, and said, with a roguish twinkle:
"Mother, will you please lend me two dollars of my money?"
Ordinarily, Mrs. Rafferty would have said no. But she was a very bright
woman, and was so pleased with this evidence that Patsy had inherited
some of her own wit, that she could not find it in her heart to refuse
him.
"There's two dollars, and I suppose when you come back it'll be four,"
said she, remembering how money breeds money.
"Yes--four o'clock," said Patsy, as he ran out of the door and made for
his friend the pawnbroker's, who sold him an old musket, with which, in
a few minutes, Patsy joined the volunteers.
Ned Rogers had not been able to find any fire-arm; but when he learned
where Patsy got his musket, and that the pawnbroker had a mate to it,
he ran off to his aunt's house at his best speed, and entering
unceremoniously, exclaimed:
"Aunty, I want two dollars quicker than lightning!"
"Edmund Burton! how you frighten me," said his Aunt Mercy. "Jane, get
my pocket-book from the right-hand corner of my top bureau-drawer, and
throw it downstairs right away."
The instant the pocket-book struck the floor, Ned snatched two dollars
out of it and was off like a shot.
"Sweet, benevolent boy!" said Aunt Mercy. "I've no doubt he's hastening
to relieve some peculiar and urgent case of distress he has discovered
among the poor and sorrowful."
As it was rather late when Ned arrived at the church with his weapon,
and the keg of powder was in its last quarter, he thought he'd make up
for lost time. So he slipped in three bullets, instead of one, with his
first load, and in his excitement rammed them so hard as almost to weld
them together.
The consequence was that, when he discharged it, a large sliver was
torn from the spire, and at the same time he found himself rolling over
into the gutter, a very peculiar case of distress, indeed.
When Deacon Graham saw how fast the ammunition was disappearing, while
the desultory firing produced no effect upon the kite, he thought some
better plan should be devised, and conceived of a way in which, as he
believed, concerted action might accomplish the desired result. But
when he tried to explain it to the crowd, everybody was excited, and
nobody paid the slightest attention to him.
The spectators partook of the general excitement, and applauded the
performance.
"Bang away, boys! Never mind the Deacon!" said the pastor's son, as he
pulled both triggers of a neat little double-barrelled shot-gun.
"_Epigrus via, generosissimi tormentarii!_ Peg away, most noble
gunners!" shouted Holman.
The Deacon, who had been growing more and more excited, was now beside
himself. In his desperation, he sat down upon the keg of powder, and
declared that no more should be used till he was listened to. Whereupon
the pastor's son produced a lucifer match, lighted it, and declared
that if the Deacon didn't get up at once, he'd send him kiting.
"Get up, or go up," was the laconic way in which he put it; and the
Deacon got up.
"I'll tell you, Deacon," said one of the huntsmen, "a chain-shot would
be the thing to break that string with."
"You shall have it," said the Deacon, and off he posted down town
again, to order chain-shot. But the article was not to be had, and when
he returned, the kite still rode triumphant.
The trustees held a meeting on the steps of the church. "Now don't get
excited," said Mr. Simmons, the calmest of them; "the first shower will
bring down the kite. We've only to go off quietly about our business,
and leave it to nature."
"I don't know about that," said Monkey Roe, in a low tone, to one of
the boys who had crowded around to learn what the trustees would do.
"The back of that kite is pretty thoroughly greased. It'll shed water
like a duck, and nothing less than a heavy hail-storm can bring it
down."
"How do you know that, young man?" said Mr. Simmons, who overheard him.
"Why," said Monkey, seeing that he had betrayed himself, "you see--the
fact is--I--I--saw a little bird try to light on the kite, but he
slipped off so quick I knew it must be greased."
"Humph!" said Mr. Simmons. "That's a likely story."
"Brother Simmons," said Deacon Graham, "we can't wait for a
storm,--there is no prospect of any. If we don't dispose of this thing
pretty soon, I'm afraid it'll make us ridiculous."
Nobody was able to suggest any means of relief. Perhaps a sailor could
have climbed the lightning-rod; but there was no sailor in town, and
half way up the spire the rod was broken and a section was missing.
There seemed to be no way short of building a scaffolding to the top of
the steeple, which would have cost considerable money.
The pastor's son took Monkey Roe aside. "Your prophesy has been nobly
fulfilled," said he, "and you've given us a tremendous piece of fun.
Get us up another as good as this."
The result of the deliberations of the trustees was, that they resolved
to offer a reward of twenty dollars to any one who would get the kite
off from the steeple; and this offer was formally proclaimed to the
crowd by Deacon Graham.
Hardly had the proclamation been made, when Phaeton Rogers, who had
conceived a plan for getting down the kite, and had been preparing the
necessary implements, appeared on the scene with his equipment.
This consisted of a powerful hickory bow, about as tall as himself, two
heavy arrows, and a large ball of the best kite-string.
After measuring with his eye the height of the steeple and the
direction of the kite, Phaeton said he must mount to the roof of the
church.
"Certainly, young man," said Deacon Graham; "anything you want, and
twenty dollars reward if you'll get that thing down. Here, sexton, show
this young gentleman the way to the roof."
Phaeton passed in at the door with the sexton, and soon reappeared on
the roof. The crowd seemed to watch him with considerable interest.
Standing on the ridge-pole, he strung his bow. Then he unwound a large
part of the ball of string, and laid it out loosely on the roof; after
which he tied the end of it to one of the arrows, and laid the arrow
across his bow.
A murmur of approbation ran through the crowd, as they thought they saw
his plan.
Pointing the arrow upward at a slight angle from the perpendicular, and
drawing it to the head, he discharged it. The shaft ascended gracefully
on one side of the string of the kite, and descended on the other side.
[Illustration: "POINTING THE ARROW UPWARD AT AN ANGLE, PHAETON DREW IT
TO THE HEAD."]
At sight of this, the crowd burst into applause, supposing that the
task was virtually accomplished. It would have been easy enough now to
take hold of the two ends of the string that had been carried by the
arrow, and by simply pulling bring down the kite. But this would not
have taken off the hoop from the top of the spire, and it would have
been necessary to break off the kite-string, leaving more or less of it
attached to the hoop, to float on the breeze like a streamer till it
rotted away. Phaeton intended to make a cleaner job than that.
When the arrow fell upon the ground, Ned, by his brother's direction,
picked it up and held it just as it was. Phaeton threw down the ball of
string still unwound, and then descended to the ground. He very quickly
made a slip-knot on the end of the string, passed the ball through it,
and then, by pulling carefully and steadily on the ball-end, made the
slip-knot slide up till it reached the string of the kite. Before it
was pulled up tight, he walked out on the square in a direction to pull
the slip-knot as close as possible to the hoop.
This done, he placed himself, with the string in his hand, on the spot
where he supposed the one who got up the kite must have stood while
putting the hoop over the point of the lightning-rod. That is to say,
he walked from the church in such a direction, and to such a distance,
that the string he held in his hand formed a continuous and (but for
the sag) straight line with the string that held the kite to the hoop.
He expected, on arriving at this point, to raise his hand, give a jerk
or two at the string, and see the hoop slide up and off the rod, from
the tendency--caused by the kite's pulling at one end of the string,
and himself at the other--to take up the sag.
His theory was perfect, but the plan did not work; probably because the
wind had died down a little, and the kite was flying lower than when it
was first put up.
When he saw that the hoop was not to be lifted by this means, he cast
about for a further expedient, the crowd meanwhile expressing
disappointment and impatience.
Carrying the string entirely across the square, he stopped in front of
the house that was in line with it, and asked permission to ascend to
the roof, which was granted. Breaking off the string, and telling Ned
to stand there and hold the end, he put the ball into his pocket, took
a pebble in his hand, and went up through the house and came out at the
scuttle.
Tying the pebble to the end of the string, he threw it down to his
brother, who tied the end of the string to the end he had been holding.
Phaeton then drew it up, and once more pulled at the hoop.
It stuck a little at first; but as he alternately pulled and slackened,
it was started at last, and began to slide up the lightning-rod;
whereupon the crowd set up a shout, and a great many people remarked
that they knew all the while the boy would succeed.
But the hoop only rose to a point about half way between its former
resting-place and the tip of the rod, and there it remained. No
sleight-of-hand that Phaeton could exercise would make it rise another
inch. If the wind had freshened, so as to make the kite sail higher,
the hoop would have slid to the top of the rod at once. But the wind
did not freshen, and there was no taller building anywhere in line with
the string than the one Phaeton was standing on.
The crowd expressed disappointment again, some of them groaned, and
remarked that they had been confident all the while the boy couldn't do
it.
"Ned," said Phaeton, "come up here."
Ned went up.
"Now," said Phaeton, "stand right in this spot; hold the string just as
you see me holding it now; and try to pull on it just hard enough to
make the hoop hang loosely around the rod instead of being held close
against it either by the tugging of the kite one way, or by your
pulling the other."
"I understand," said Ned. "I'll do my best."
Phaeton then went back to the church, and ascended to the roof again
with his bow and arrow and the ball of string. Laying out the string as
before, and tying the end to the arrow, he shot it over the kite-string
so that the arrow fell upon the roof.
Making a slip-knot as before, he pulled upon the end of his string till
the knot slid up to the kite-string at a point pretty near the hoop. He
now broke off the string, leaving it just long enough to reach from the
point where it was attached to the kite-string straight down to where
he stood on the roof.
He tied the end to his arrow, and, drawing the shaft to the head, shot
it straight upward. As the arrow left the bow, the crowd cheered again,
for it was evident that when the arrow, in its course, should reach a
point as far above the kite-string as Phaeton was below it, it would
begin to pull the kite-string upward, and if it had force enough to go
a yard or two higher, it must, of course, pull the hoop off from the
rod.
But it lacked force enough. It rose till it had almost straightened the
string it was carrying, and then wearily turned its head and dropped to
the roof again.
The crowd groaned, and some of them left for their homes or their
business, saying they knew all the while that foolery wouldn't work.
Phaeton sat down on the ridge-pole of the church, put his head between
his hands, and thought. While he sat there, the crowd shouted all sorts
of advice to him, most of which was intended to be sarcastic, though
some spoke seriously enough, as those who suggested that he use a
larger bow and a lighter string.
After some moments he got up, went to the arrow, and detached it from
the string; then, taking the end of the string between his palms, he
rolled it and rolled it, until he had very greatly hardened the twist.
If you have ever twisted a piece of common string up tight, and then,
taking the two ends between your thumb and finger, let go of the
middle, you know what it does. It doubles and twists itself together,
in the vain effort to untwist.
When Phaeton had tightened the twist of his string as much as he could,
he tied the arrow on again, laid it across his bow, pointed it toward
the zenith, drew it to the head, and once more discharged it.
While the arrow was climbing, the string--wherever the slack folds of
it hung near enough to one another--was doubling and twisting together,
thus greatly shortening itself. The arrow had not gone much more than
half its former distance above the kite-string when it arrived at the
end of its own now shortened string, and gave such a jerk as pulled the
hoop clear up from the end of the lightning-rod.
When the crowd saw this, they burst into a tremendous cheer, threw
their caps into the air, and bestowed all sorts of compliments upon
Phaeton.
Phaeton took off his hat and made a low bow to the people, and then
disappeared through the little door in the tower, by which he had
gained access to the roof. He soon reappeared, emerging from the front
door, and then ran across the square, to the house where Ned still
stood on the roof, like a statue, or Casabianca, waiting for his next
orders.
"Haul her in," said Phaeton, and Ned immediately began winding in the
kite, using his left forearm as a reel, and passing the string around
his elbow and through the notch between his thumb and forefinger. He
wound on everything as he came to it--hoop, mottoes, even Phaeton's
arrow.
Phaeton stood in the street before the house, caught the kite by the
tail as it approached the ground, and soon had it secure. He broke off
the string, and Ned came down through the house.
An immense crowd surrounded them, and impeded their progress as they
started for home.
"Jump into my carriage; I'll take you home," said the driver of an open
barouche, who had stopped to see the performance, and like everybody
else was intensely interested in it.
Phaeton was instantly seized in the arms of three or four men and
lifted into the carriage. Then Ned was lifted in the same way and
seated beside him. Then the kite was stood up on the front seat,
leaning against the driver's back, with its astonishing motto staring
the boys in the face. Lukey Finnerty, who had been proudly holding
Ned's musket for him, handed it up, and it was placed aslant of the
seat between the two boys. The bow, brought by the sexton, was placed
beside it, and the carriage then moved off, while a large number of
boys followed in its wake, three of them being suspended from the hind
axle by their hands, while their feet were drawn up to clear the
ground.
[Illustration: RIDING HOME IN THE BAROUCHE.]
"Why is he carrying away that kite?" said Deacon Graham, asking the
question in a general way, as if he expected the crowd to answer it in
concert. "That belongs to the church."
"_Sic nodus_--not so," said Isaac Holman. "It belongs to him; he made
it."
"Ah, ha!" said the Deacon; "I smell a mice, I s-m-e-l-l a mice!"
As the driver had recently procured his new and handsome barouche, and
was anxious to exhibit it, he drove rather slowly and took a somewhat
circuitous route. All the way along, people were attracted to their
windows. As the carriage was passing through West street, Phaeton
colored a little when he saw three ladies standing on an upper balcony,
and lifted his hat with some trepidation when the youngest of them
bowed. The next moment she threw a bouquet, which landed in the
carriage and was picked up and appropriated by Ned.
"I am inclined to think," said Phaeton, "that bouquet was intended for
me."
"Was it?" said Ned. "Then take it, of course. I could buy one just like
it for a quarter, if I cared for flowers. But, by the way, Fay, what
are you going to do with the twenty dollars you've won? That's
considerable money."
"I am going to put it to the best possible use for money," said
Phaeton.
"I didn't know there was any one use better than all others," said Ned.
"What is it?"
"To pay a debt," said Phaeton.
"I never should have guessed that," said Ned; "and I don't believe many
people think so."
As they rode by Jack's Box, Jack, who stood in the door, learned for
the first time what Monkey Roe had wanted the Scripture motto for.
They also passed Aunt Mercy's house, and their aunt and Miss Pinkham
were on the piazza. Ned stood up in the carriage and swung his hat.
Phaeton saluted his aunt more quietly.
"What in the world are those boys doing in that barouche?" said Aunt
Mercy.
"I don't know, but I'll go and find out," said Miss Pinkham, and she
ran to the gate and got the story from one of the Dublin boys, who
spoke of Phaeton and Ned as "the Rogers boys," without differentiating
them, as a scientific man would say.
Miss Pinkham returned to the piazza and repeated the whole story.
"Edmund Burton always was a smart boy," said Aunt Mercy. "I could have
predicted he would be the one to get that kite off. He'd find a way to
scrape the spots off the sun, if they wanted him to. But I don't see
why that stupid brother of his should be stuck up there to share his
glory."
When it came to the question of paying the reward, Deacon Graham
stoutly opposed the payment, on the ground that Phaeton himself had
been concerned in putting the kite on the steeple--or, at least, had
furnished the kite--for the very purpose of getting it down as he did.
He said "no boy could fool him,--it was too long since he was a boy
himself,"--which seemed to me a very singular reason.
It looked for a while as if Phaeton would not get the money; but the
other trustees investigated the matter, rejected the deacon's theory,
and paid the reward.
On their complaint, Monkey Roe was brought before 'Squire Moore, the
Police Justice, to answer for his roguery. The court-room was full,
about half the spectators being boys.
"What is your name?" said the Justice.
"I'm not sure that I know," said Monkey.
"Not know your own name? How's that?"
"Because, my mother calls me Monty, my father calls me James, and the
boys call me Monkey Roe."
"I suppose the boys are more numerous than your parents?" said the
Justice.
"Much more," said Monkey.
"And you probably answer somewhat more readily when they call?"
"I'm afraid I do."
"Then," said the Justice, "we'll consider the weight of evidence to be
in favor of the name Monkey Roe, and I'll enter it thus on the record."
As he wrote it down, he murmured: "We've often had Richard Roe
arraigned in this court, but never Monkey, I believe."
"Now, Monkey, I'm going to ask a question, which you need not answer
unless you choose to. Did you, on Saturday night last, between the
hours of sunset and sunrise, raise, fly, and elevate one six-cornered
paper kite, bearing a motto or sentiment from the sacred book called
Leviticus, and tie, fix, anchor, attach, or fasten the same to the
lightning-rod that surmounts the spire, or steeple, of the First Church
of the sect or denomination known and designated as Baptist, fronting
and abutting on Independence square in this city?"
"To the best of my knowledge and belief, I did," said Monkey.
"Please state to the court, Monkey, your motives, if you had any, for
this wicked and atrocious act."
In answer to this, Monkey told briefly and clearly the whole story,
which the reader already knows, beginning at the point where he "just
stopped half a second, Sunday morning, to see how that boy's kite
pulled." When he came to the scene in the Sunday-school room, he gave
it with a dramatic effect that was well calculated to arouse sympathy
for himself.
'Squire Moore had been as much interested as anybody in the kite on the
steeple, and had laughed his enormous sides sore when he scanned it and
its appendages through Patsy's glass. When Monkey had finished his
story, the 'Squire delivered the decision of the court in a little
speech.
"I have searched the Revised Statutes," said he, "and have consulted
the best authorities; but I look in vain to find any statute which
makes it a penal office to attach a kite to a steeple. The common law
is silent on the subject, and none of the authorities mention any
precedent. You have succeeded, young man, in committing a misdemeanor
for which there is no penalty, and the court is, therefore, obliged to
discharge you, with the admonition never to do so any more."
As Monkey left the bar, there was a rush for the door, the boys getting
out first. They collected in a body in front of the building, and, when
he appeared, gave him three tremendous cheers, with three others for
'Squire Moore,--in which performance the pastor's son was conspicuous.
But when Monkey came to face the domestic tribunal over which his
father presided, he found that a lack of precedent was no bar to the
administration of justice in that court.
About a week later, a package addressed to me, and bearing the
business-card of a well-known tailor, was left at our door. When I
opened it, I found a new Sunday suit, to replace the one which had been
ruined when Phaeton wore it to the fire. It must have taken about all
of his reward money to pay for it.
For years afterward, the boys used to allude to that season as "the
summer we had two Fourth-of-Julys." The scars made by the bullets on
the steeple were never healed, and you can see them now, if you chance
to pass that way.