RINGS, SCISSORS, AND BOOTS.
Phaeton's fame as an inventor and general engineer was growing rapidly
among the boys. They had great faith in his powers, and in some of them
a similar inventive spirit was awakened, though none of them
accomplished much. They very commonly came to consult him when they
thought they had an idea.
One day Holman came to the printing-office when we were all
there,--including Jimmy, who, with the help of Wilson's "Treatise on
Punctuation," was learning to read proof,--and said he thought he knew
how we could make a fortune.
"That's a good thing to know," said Phaeton.
"But I can't be quite sure that I do know it," said Holman, "till I
talk with you about some parts of the scheme."
"I shall be glad to help you if I can," said Phaeton.
"I don't care to make any secret of it," continued Holman, "because, if
it can be carried out, we shall have to make a sort of joint-stock
company, and take in several of the boys."
"Will it make us a fortune apiece?" said Ned, "or only one fortune, to
be divided up among the company?"
"That depends on how much you consider a fortune," answered Holman.
"The main thing I want to know, Fay, is this: whether it is possible to
invent some way of going under water, and working there, without a big,
heavy diving-bell."
"I think," said Phaeton, "that other and lighter apparatus has been
invented already; but if not, I should think it could be."
"Then we are all right," said Holman. "I know where the fortune
is,--there's no uncertainty about that,--but it's under water a few
feet, and it won't do to go for it with any large and noticeable
machinery."
"Fay can easily invent a pocket diving-bell," said Ned.
"Do you know the history of Venice?" said Holman.
Phaeton said he knew the outlines of her history, Jimmy said he knew
about the Bucentaur and the brass horses, but Ned and I confessed total
ignorance.
"I've just been reading it," said Holman, "and that's where I got my
idea. You must know that when Venice was a rich republic, the Doge--who
was the same as a president or mayor--used to go out once a year in a
big row-boat called the Bucentaur, with banners and streamers, and a
brass band, and a lot of jolly fellows, and marry the Adriatic Sea, as
they called it. That is, he threw a splendid wedding-ring into the
water, and then I suppose they all gave three cheers, and fired a
salute, and had some lemonade, and perhaps made speeches that were a
little tedious, like those we have to listen to at school on
examination-day. At any rate, he threw in the ring, and that's the
important thing."
"What was all that for?" said Ned.
"Jack-in-the-Box told me," said Holman, "it was because the Venetians
were a sea-going people, and all their wealth came from commerce, and
so this ceremony signified their devotion to the sea. But, as I was
saying, this was done regularly every year for six hundred and twenty
years; and what makes it lucky for us is, that it was always done at
the same spot--the Porto di Lido, a channel through that long, narrow
island that lies a little off shore."
"I don't see where the luck for us comes in," said I. "If the Doges had
been our grandfathers, and bequeathed us the rings instead of throwing
them away, there might be some luck in that."
"Wait till you see what I'm coming to," said Holman. "The Adriatic is a
shallow sea,--I've looked up all the facts,--and my idea is, that we
might as well have those rings as for them to lie there doing nobody
any good."
"How much are they worth?" said Ned.
"You can calculate it for yourself," said Holman. "As I said before,
the ceremony was repeated every year for six hundred and twenty years.
Of course, we might not get quite all of them--throw off the twenty;
there are six hundred rings. They must have been splendid ones, and
were probably worth at least a hundred dollars apiece. There's sixty
thousand dollars, all in a huddle in that one spot."
"But don't you suppose," said Ned, "that after a while those cunning
old Doges would stop throwing in solid gold rings with real diamonds on
them, and use brass ones washed with gold, and paste diamonds?"
"I think not," said Holman; "for they didn't have to pay for them--the
bill was footed by the Common Council. And they couldn't try that
without getting caught. For of course the ring would be on exhibition a
week or so in the window of some fashionable jewelry store, and the
newspapers would tell that it was furnished by the celebrated
establishment of So-and-So."
"But don't you suppose," said Phaeton, "that as soon as it was dark,
some fellow went out quietly in a little skiff, and dove for the rings?
Some of those Italians are wonderful divers."
"I think not," said Holman; "for the ring would be of no use to a
Venetian; he wouldn't dare offer it for sale."
"How do you propose to get them?"
"My plan is, first, to invent some kind of diving apparatus that is
small, and can be packed in a valise; then, for us to save up all the
money we can get, till we have enough to pay the travelling expenses of
two of us from here to Venice. We could go cheap in a sailing-vessel.
Suppose you and I went, Fay; we'd ask the Venetians about the fishing,
and buy or hire some tackle, and put a lunch in our valise, with the
diving apparatus, and get a skiff and start off. I've planned the very
course. When you leave the city you steer a little east of north-east;
row about four miles, and there you are."
"That's easy enough," said I,--"only a little over half the distance
from here to Charlotte, which we've all rowed scores of times."
"When we get there," Holman continued, "we'll fish a while to lull
suspicion, and then I'll quietly get into the diving apparatus and drop
into the water, with the valise in my hand. It wouldn't take me long to
scoop up those rings, once I got amongst them; then, of course, Fay
would haul me up, and we'd hurry home and divide. We could easily turn
the rings into money."
"I should think we might get more for them as curiosities than as old
gold," said I.
"That's a good idea," said Holman.
"But we mustn't be in a hurry to sell them _all_," said Jimmy the
Rhymer. "When a fellow grows up and gets engaged, one of those would be
an awful romantic thing to give to the lady."
"I know a better way than that to get them, though," said Ned.
"Let's hear."
"Just invent some kind of magnet that'll stick to gold, as a common
magnet sticks to iron, and put a good strong one in the butt end of
your fish-pole; then, when the Venetians were looking, you could be
fishing; and when they were not looking, you could drop the big end of
the pole into the water, poke around a little on the bottom, and haul
up a ring. Maybe sometimes you'd haul up a dozen at once, all sticking
together like a cluster of grapes."
Whether Holman was in earnest, or was only testing the credulity of us
younger boys, I never knew; but we took it all in good faith, and went
home that night to dream of loading our fingers with rings, and
spending sixty thousand dollars divided into five shares. However
Holman may have been jesting in this scheme for acquiring a fortune for
himself, it was not many days after this when he actually entered upon
a rather ludicrous performance to get a little money for somebody else.
There were two Red Rovers in our town--in fact, there were three. The
reader has already made the acquaintance of the fire-company and engine
known as Red Rover Three. A man who had once belonged to that company,
but was now past the prime of life, and honorably retired from the
service, made his living by grinding knives and scissors.
But he was too much of a Yankee to go about with a wheel in a little
frame strapped upon his back, and a bell in his hand, to be rung
monotonously, from street to street. He built a peculiar carriage,--a
square framework, about four feet high and six feet long,--running on
four large wheels, wherein was a bewildering mass of machinery.
Standing behind it, and laying his hands upon two great brass knobs, he
walked slowly through the streets, pushing it before him in a dignified
manner, to the awe of the boys and the wonderment of the whole town. It
went with an easy motion, the wheels making only a subdued and gentle
noise. Surmounting it in front was a large bell, which was struck at
solemn and impressive intervals. This apparatus both increased his
patronage and elevated the dignity of the profession. He had no vulgar
and noisy cry, soliciting custom in a half-intelligible jargon. People
who wanted their scissors ground came to the doors with them when they
heard his bell. Then the wheels of the chariot stopped, the charioteer
lifted his hat in salutation, and the negotiation seemed like a matter
of friendly favor, rather than bargain and pay.
In order to grind, he opened a little gate in the rear of the machine,
stepped inside, closed the gate behind him, and seated himself upon a
small shelf which was fastened to the gate. His feet were then placed
upon two pedals, and the machinery began to move.
Five small grindstones, of different sizes and fineness, revolved
before him. At his right hand was a little anvil; at his left was a
vise; and under this was a box of small tools.
About the middle of the machine, on the top, was a small figure of a
Scottish Highlander, with bag-pipes under his arm. The bag--which was
of painted tin--was filled with water; and a plug, withdrawn from the
longest of the pipes, allowed the water to trickle down upon the
knife-wheel. Scissors were generally ground on a dry wheel. When the
machinery was in motion, the pipes played something, intended for
music, between a squeak and a whistle; so that when he was travelling,
the bell rang, and when he was grinding, the pipes played.
On one of the front corners was a little bronze bust of Washington, and
on the other was one of Franklin; between them was a clock, with a
marine movement.
The whole frame and running gear were painted a bright red, and
garnished with shining brass ornaments. The man called his machine Red
Rover, after the beloved engine with which he used to run, and the name
appeared on the side in brass letters. It seemed as if he must spend
the greater part of his earnings on its improvement and embellishment.
The man himself, whose hair was broadly streaked with gray, was called
"The Old Red Rover," and we never knew him by any other name.
He lived in a little bit of a house by the canal; and the machine,
which was always kept in shining order, had to be taken in-doors every
night. How he managed to find room in the house for himself, his wife,
and his four children, besides the machine, we could never imagine--and
it was none of our business. That little house by the canal was as much
the Old Red Rover's castle as the palaces that you and I live in, dear
reader, are ours.
I think it was a week after our conversation concerning the Doge's
rings, when, one Saturday, Ned and I heard the bell ring, and saw the
Red Rover coming up State street, with Isaac Holman propelling it,
instead of its owner.
This was rather astonishing, and, of course, an immediate explanation
was demanded.
"Why, you see," said Holman, "Mother had been for a long time wishing
the Old Red Rover would come around, for every pair of scissors in the
house was as dull as a Dutch grammar. At last she got tired of waiting,
and so I went to his house with them. I found he was laid up with
rheumatism, and hadn't been out for five weeks. It looked to me as if
the family were on short rations, and I began to think what I could do
for them. I thought the best thing would be, to take the machine and
spend the day in going around grinding scissors, and at night take home
the money to the Old Red Rover."
"Yes," said Ned, "that's the very best thing; it's more fun than
anything else you could have thought of."
"He was rather afraid to let me try it," continued Holman, "but Mrs.
The-Old-Red-Rover was greatly pleased with the idea, and soon persuaded
him. 'Be very tender with her--she's the pride of my life,' said he, as
we rolled it out of the door; and he didn't mean his wife--he meant the
machine."
We had often kept this machine company as it passed through the streets
in charge of its owner, and it was doubly interesting now when one of
our own number was allowed to run it. So, of course, we went along with
Holman on his benevolent tour. Other boys also joined us, and the
unusually large crowd attracted attention. We were all ready to explain
the situation to people who stood in the doors or looked out at the
windows, and the result was that Holman had plenty of work.
[Illustration: THE BOYS RUN THE RED ROVER.]
Soon after turning into West street, he began to go much more slowly.
At the house where Miss Glidden had been living since the fire, nobody
appeared at door or window. It happened that right here something got
out of order in the machine--at least, Holman said it did, and he had
to stop stock-still and tinker at it a long time; but I was not able to
see what was out of order.
At last Miss Glidden appeared at the door, and inquired what was going
on. Monkey Roe ran up the steps and informed her.
"It's entirely out of mercy," said he, "and you'd be doing a benevolent
thing to give him as many scissors as possible to sharpen."
Miss Glidden invited him in, and soon collected three pairs of scissors
and a pair of shears, which she requested him to take out and have
ground for her.
"Is this all you have?" said he, in a tone signifying that he
considered it a very small crop.
"There may be more," said she. "Biddy"--to the servant--"bring here any
scissors you have that need grinding."
Biddy brought from the kitchen a pair that were used to trim lamps.
"Is this all, Biddy?" said Monkey.
"I don't know--I'll see, sir," said Biddy; and Monkey followed her to
the kitchen.
Next to it he found a sort of combined work-room and store-room, the
door of which stood open, and, looking over its contents, soon
discovered a pair of tinsmith's shears, a pair of sheep-shears, a
drawing-knife, a cooper's adze, and a rusty broad-axe, all of which,
with the family carving-knife, brought by Biddy, he added to the
collection, and came down the steps with them in his arms.
"Here, Holman," said he, "Miss Glidden wants you to sharpen these few
things for the good cause."
"_Boni cani calcei!_--Good gracious!" exclaimed Holman, "does she think
I'm Hercules?"
"No," said Monkey, in a low tone, "but I guess she thinks you're
Her--admirer."
"But I suppose it must be done," Isaac added, not hearing Monkey's
remark. And he took off his jacket and went to work manfully.
The scissors were soon disposed of, as were also the carving-knife and
the drawing-knife; but the other articles were somewhat troublesome.
About all he could do with the broad-axe was to grind off the rust that
completely coated it. The tinsmith's shears were a heavy job, and the
sheep-shears completely baffled him, till he gave up trying to sharpen
them on the grindstone, and, finding a file in the tool-box, applied
that to their edges, against the solemn protest of Monkey Roe, who
declared it would take the temper out of the steel.
"And when Miss Glidden sees them, it may bring her temper out too," he
added.
"Can't help it," said Holman, "and now the lot's finished; you may take
it in and collect the pay."
He had just begun to study book-keeping, and, opening a little drawer
in the machine, he found a scrap of paper, and made out this bill:
MISS V. GLIDDEN.
To MR. THE OLD RED ROVER. _Dr._
To sharpening 3 prs. scissors, @ 6c $0 18
" 2 " shears, @ 8c 16
" 1 pr. tinsmith's shears 15
" 1 " sheep-shears 10
" 1 drawing-knife 8
" 1 adze 6
" 1 broad-axe 20
" 1 carving-knife 8
----
$1.01
Received payment,
THE OLD RED ROVER,
pr. Holman.
Monkey took this and the armful of cutlery, and carried them in to Miss
Glidden, who was somewhat surprised, as she had not known exactly what
he was about. However, she laughingly paid the bill, and he carefully
piled the articles on the parlor table, and came away.
I observed that Holman put the dollar into the drawer where he had put
all the other money, but the cent he put into his pocket. Then he took
another cent from another pocket, and threw it into the drawer.
We had travelled perhaps half a mile farther, and Holman had ground
something like forty pairs of scissors in all, when we were joined by
Phaeton, who watched him as he ground the next pair.
"Is that the way you've ground them all?" said he, when it was
finished.
"Yes, of course--why?" said Holman.
"Because if you have, you've ruined every pair you've touched," said
Phaeton. "Don't you know that scissors must be ground on the edge of
the blade, not on the side, like a knife? If you grind away the sides,
the blades can't touch each other, and so can't cut at all."
"I declare, I believe that's so," said Holman. "I thought it was kind
of queer that none of the scissors would really cut anything; but I was
sure I had made them sharp, and so supposed they were all old, worn-out
things that wouldn't cut, any way. I guess you'd better take my place,
Fay."
Phaeton declined to do this, but went along as confidential adviser.
We wound about through a great number of streets, the accompanying
crowd of boys being sometimes larger and sometimes smaller, and ground
a great many knives and scissors.
On turning a corner into a by-street that bore the proud name of
Fairfax, we came suddenly upon Jimmy the Rhymer. He was sitting on a
bowlder, with a quantity of printed bills over his left arm, a
paste-brush in his right hand, and a small bucket of paste on the
ground beside him. He looked tired and melancholy.
The outward situation was soon explained. A man who had kept a
cobbler's shop for many years, but had recently enlarged it into
something like a shoe-store, had employed us to print some bills to be
posted up on the fences and dead-walls, announcing the event. They
began with the startling legend, printed in our largest type,
GO IT BOOTS!
which was followed by an account of the new store and new goods, the
favorite rhetorical figure being hyperbole. Looking about for some one
to post them who would do it more cheaply than the regular bill-poster
of the town, he had thought of Jimmy the Rhymer, who accepted the job
because he wanted to earn a little money.
"Are you sick, Jimmy?" said Phaeton, observing his dejection.
"Not in body," said Jimmy, "but I am sick in mind--sick at heart."
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Look at that," said Jimmy, slowly raising his hand and pointing at one
of the bills which he had just posted on a barn-door. "Go it
Boots!"--he quoted it very slowly. "What do I care about going it
boots? I couldn't go it boots if I wanted to. There is no more going it
boots for me in this world."
"I don't quite understand you," said Phaeton.
"I mean," said Jimmy, "that my soul yearns for poetry--for the
beautiful in nature and art. And it disgusts me to think of spending my
time in spreading such literature as this through the world."
"That isn't very complimentary to us," said Ned. "We spent considerable
of our time in printing it."
"I suppose you get paid for it," said Phaeton.
"Of course," said Jimmy, "or I shouldn't do it at all."
"Then it seems to me," said Phaeton, "you might look upon it cheerfully
as only so much drudge-work done to purchase leisure and opportunity
for the work you delight in. You know a great many famous men have been
obliged to get through the world in that way."
"Yes, cheer up," said Monkey Roe. "Look at us: we're having lots of fun
over drudgier work than yours. Come along with us, and we'll make one
circus of the whole thing--two entertainments under one canvas, as the
bills say. Holman has plenty of help, so I'll be your assistant."
And he took the brush and paste-bucket, while Jimmy still carried the
bills, and we all moved on together.
As Jimmy walked beside the machine, he and Holman seemed to resume some
former conversation.
"Can't you make up your mind to do it, if I double the price?" said
Holman.
"On the contrary," said Jimmy, "I've made up my mind that I _won't_ do
it at _any_ price."
"Why not?" asked Holman.
"For two reasons," answered Jimmy. "One is, that I don't think it's
exactly honest to write such things for anybody else to pass off as his
own."
"And the other?" said Holman.
"The other is," said Jimmy, speaking much lower, but still so that I
who was next to him could hear, "and I may as well tell you plainly,
Isaac,--the other is, that I have some hopes in that direction myself,
and if I write anything more for her, I'll send it as my own."
"You?" said Holman, in astonishment.
"Certainly," said Jimmy, with great coolness, as if he felt himself
master of the situation, "and I think my claim is better than yours.
Whatever there is between you and her--if there is anything--is
entirely of your seeking. But in my case it's all of her seeking; she
sent me flowers every day when I was laid up."
"That's nothing--that doesn't mean anything," said Holman.
"If it doesn't, then I've read the poets all wrong," said Jimmy.
"_Poetæ apis suspensi!_--poets be hanged!" exclaimed Isaac, and then
gave a prolonged whistle, which closed the conversation.
Phaeton, who was next to me, and also overheard, opened his mouth as if
to say something to Jimmy, but checked himself. Yet he was so full of
his idea that he was obliged to utter it somehow, and so whispered it
in my ear:
"If it comes to that, my claim is even better than his, for she gave
flowers to me when I was not an object of pity."
* * * * *
The way Monkey Roe did that job created an epoch in bill-posting.
We passed the office of a veterinary surgeon, who had the skeleton of a
horse, mounted on a board, for a sign; and before anybody knew what he
was about, Monkey whipped off one of the bills from Jimmy's arm, and
pasted it right across the skeleton's ribs.
We came to a loaded coal-cart, broken down in the middle of the street
by the crushing of a wheel, and he posted one on that.
We passed a tobacco-shop, in front of which stood a life-size wooden
statue of a bare-legged and plaided Highlander; and Monkey pasted a Go
it Boots! on his naked shin.
We met a beggar who went about on two crutches, but who was known to be
an impostor; and after he had passed us, one of the bills was attached
to his coat-tail, like the cheapest kind of April-fool.
We passed a windmill that had been put up as an experiment, and had
failed; and Monkey posted a bill on each of the sails--revolving it
enough to bring each of them near the ground in turn--and one on the
door.
There was an omnibus-horse that had fallen by the roadside that
morning, and Monkey unfeelingly pasted a Go it Boots! on his poor, dead
back.
On whatever he saw that couldn't go it at all, he was sure to fasten
this advice to go it boots. I think Monkey was a very ironical boy.
"There, Jimmy," said he, as he disposed of the last bill, "you see it's
only necessary to approach your work in the right spirit to make it a
pleasure, as the school-master says. But I'll tell you what to do, if
you don't want to spread this sort of literature. The next time
Dunderson, or any other cobbler, wants to get out a bill, you write it
for him, and put it all in poetry. Then it'll be a delight to post it."
Jimmy said he'd consider it.
About five o'clock in the afternoon, when we were all pretty tired, we
returned the Red Rover safely to its home, and Holman gladdened Mrs.
The-Old-Red-Rover with more money than she had seen in a long time, for
which she was very grateful. As we turned away, we met their eldest
boy, Johnny The-Old-Red-Rover, bringing a basketful of bark which he
had cut from the oaken logs in the saw-mill yard. Before we were out of
sight of the house, the smoke curled out of the little chimney, and
I've no doubt they celebrated the day with a joyful supper.
As we passed the Box, we stopped to speak with Jack. He was flagging an
express train that was creeping slowly into the city, retarded by a hot
box. When it had reached the crossing, it stopped entirely, and most of
the passengers thrust their heads out at the windows. One of these
heads came out in such a way as to be exactly face-to-face with Jack,
the interval between them being less than a yard.
Jack gave a piercing shriek, and fell to the ground.
Phaeton and I ran to him, and picked him up.
"He's in a fit," said I.
"No," said Phaeton, "I think he has only fainted. Bring water."
I found a pitcher-full in the Box, and we poured it upon his face,
which brought him to.
He looked about in a bewildered manner for a moment, then seemed to
recollect himself, and turned toward the track. But the train had
passed on.
"Phaeton," said he, "will you please stand here and flag a special
freight train that will come along in about ten minutes?"
"Certainly, with pleasure," said Phaeton, receiving the flag.
"And after that has passed, haul down the red ball and run up the white
one; then turn that second switch and lock it."
"All right!" said Phaeton. "I understand."
Jack then picked up his cap, and started on a run, crossing the public
square diagonally, evidently taking the shortest route to the passenger
station.