Empiria, the new county seat of the new county Dominion of the new State
of Harrison, was twenty miles away to the northward as the crow flies,
and at least thirty miles off by road. The horse that Mr. Ticks had the
forethought to purchase developed an unaccountable spavin, united with
an unmistakable case of the heaves: when the whip was applied it
furthermore exhibited an innate tendency to back. Mr. Swift drove
through the darkness of the night, picking out the road with that genius
for locality which the general and the reporter in the field share
alike. Barring mistakes, accidents, or further exhibitions of depravity
on the part of the equine department, they hoped to reach Empiria by
dawn.
Mr. Ticks leaned back upon the jolting seat in unbroken silence. When
his colleague, who drove, hazarded a question, the only reply was a low
grunt. As sleep was out of the question in that wagon, behind that horse
and in those roads, was it pain or mighty thought or nebulous
calculation that oppressed the wise man of the _Planet_? At about two
o'clock in the morning Mr. Stalls Ticks broke his long reserve with the
following remark:
"If it is, it is a unique case. The phenomenon is isolated."
"I hope you feel better now?" Swift had been anxious about his
colleague, and had interpreted his silence as evidence of physical
distress. Mr. Ticks gave an invisible shrug of his shoulders to express
the contempt he felt for his own anatomy in comparison with the
attainment of exact knowledge. Otherwise, heedless of the interruption,
he proceeded:
"It is physically impossible that a low-pressured area could have had
its centre three or four hundred miles northwest of Russell."
"Indeed?" replied Swift, vaguely and unsympathetically.
"It must travel towards the centre of the low pressure."
"Of course," assented Swift, as he would to a lunatic. Evidently that
inexpressible shock had been too much for the middle-aged man.
"The Gopher lake on the north, and the Buzzard mountain on the south,
prevent the isothermal curve from being deflected toward the north."
"Really?" said Swift.
"It will be deflected to the south, young man," said Mr. Ticks,
severely. "The atmospheric equilibrium can suffer no centripetal
disturbance."
"Well, what then?" asked Swift, a little bored.
"There could be no gyrating motion of the atmosphere. There will be no
aerial contest. There could be no colder stratum above the warmer layer
coming from another direction. Both would flow from the south. There
could be no inversion of these conditions. My friend, Russell has
experienced no tornado or cyclone. And yet--" he added wistfully and
thoughtfully, "and yet--"
"Well, if there was no tornado, what the deuce are we going to
Empiria for?" demanded Swift. He forgot himself, and gave the
four-hundred-dollar horse a sharp cut with the whip, in consequence of
which the animal backed them so nearly toward the place from which they
started that the journey to Empiria was seriously lengthened. Mr. Ticks
did not notice this delay.
"--And yet?" he mused.
"What is the matter, then, if it isn't wind?" asked Swift, impatiently,
after he had persuaded his horse to defer the next attack of backing for
a mile or so. "Is there a new variety of atmospheric disturbance? If
so, it might strike us here!"
"Sir--no! This is not a common tornado. As to further theories, they are
not formulated as yet. No, this quadrant of the State of Harrison was
not subjected to such a violent disturbance. I am prepared to say that
there will be no evidences of a vortex wind in or near Empiria." Mr.
Ticks relapsed into further thought, nor could he be aroused until the
jaded horse brought the two jaded reporters into the open square of the
county seat.
It was early, about five o'clock, but still there were evidences of
stirring and excitement. Upon the village common two or three large
tents were erected, and from out of these, scantily dressed men and
woman emerged. As these came into the cool, open air they lifted up
their faces to the south, searching the horizon and sky to see if there
was anything new in the smitten district. It was a motion as instinctive
as that of the Mahomedan toward Mecca when he prays. The appearance of
our two strangers excited no notice. Empiria was on a branch road,
difficult of access, but people had flocked in and the village had
become a city.
After a hard struggle, in which persistent ingenuity won, Swift obtained
a little corn for his horse, and a promise of breakfast for himself and
companion.
By six the populace was awake, bustling with feverish eagerness and
oppressed with dread and suspense. Swift questioned a hundred, climbed
to the tops of trees, advanced upon the mysterious dead line, and
retired baffled at every step.
As he thought of that vast enclosure, that was now an unapproachable
cemetery, his soul shuddered within him. Like a thousand beside him,
this man of nerve was baffled and overcome.
By nine o'clock, Swift had exhausted the spot, and was for pushing on to
the westward to complete the perplexing circle if necessary. Perhaps an
entrance might be forced elsewhere. He was sitting in his buggy with Mr.
Ticks, who was as uncommunicative as the dasher when he looked for the
hundredth time towards the Buzzard mountains. As he gazed he saw turkey
buzzards, of which there are thousands in that land, wheeling their
spiral flight above the afflicted territory. Swift looked at them as he
always did, wondering how they could fly so long without flapping their
wings, when suddenly he cried out:
"By Jove! I have it!" This startled Mr. Ticks.
"What? Have you new information? What has occurred?"
"No; but I have an idea--_the_ idea--but I don't see how I could put it
through without time. I will go to Russell, or over Russell in a
balloon!"
The light of inspiration and sympathy flashed from one to the other.
"I congratulate you on the thought," said Mr. Ticks gravely. "I think I
can procure you one in a quarter of an hour."
Now, under no circumstances is a balloon an easy thing to obtain. Even
in a metropolis like New York or London it will take the cleverest
reporter at least eighteen minutes, if not a few seconds longer, to hunt
up a suitable means of ascension. It is not as simple a matter as one
may suppose, to "go up." Therefore, when Mr. Ticks, in a matter-of-fact
voice, asserted that he would procure the balloon in fifteen minutes,
Swift fetched a long low whistle. But not in the least disconcerted by
Swift's manner, Mr. Ticks slowly descended from the vehicle, and said:
"Just wait here until I come back, so that no time may be lost." He
strode towards one of the large tents on the common and disappeared
within its flaps. Had Mr. Ticks the formula for inflating a canvas tent
into a balloon? Who knew?
In a few minutes the statistician returned, bringing with him a tall,
cadaverous man, whose leanness was heightened by a long chin beard,
which descended upon his chest to the middle button of his coat. Having
a beard of this description, the gentleman had no need of a necktie, and
having no necktie, he, of course, dispensed with a collar.
"Professor Ariel, my friend Mr. Swift, who wishes to talk business." Mr.
Ticks performed the introduction in his blandest manner. The man who
seemed to see nothing had seen everything. It had taken the unpractical,
the scholar, the dreamer, the muser, to observe the broken remnants of a
county fair, and the advertisement of that aeronautic expedition,
conducted by the renowned Professor Ariel, who was to have made an
ascension at twelve o'clock that awful day, taking with him a couple to
be married in the seventh heavens and a Seventh-Day Baptist clergyman to
tie the knot. It was at ten in the morning that Russell was closed in,
and the balloon and the professor had been ignominiously forgotten.
"Where is your balloon, professor?" asked Swift, when he had learned
these preliminary details.
"Darn it all, in that barn there!" The professor spoke as if he had a
personal grievance against the barn.
"Are--were they to have paid you for your ascension?"
"Five hundred dollars, and I hain't seen a red, and I can't get out of
this infernal place."
"I suppose it is in good condition?" inquired the editor.
"You bet! It's new. Never been used. Cost twenty-five hundred dollars.
Cash!"
"How long would it take you to get her ready?"
"Three hours' pushing would do it, I suppose."
"We want to go up in that balloon, Professor Ariel," said Swift, after
deliberation. Mr. Ticks confirmed this demand with an affirmative
gesture of his sad head.
"Can't be done, sir. I wouldn't risk her in this crowd!"
The professor spoke decisively.
"Do you know who we are?"
The professor shook his head.
"We are here representing the _Daily Planet_, and it will be the biggest
advertisement you ever had."
The professor still shook his head doubtfully.
"If you were the President and all his angels I wouldn't risk it. A
counter-current might carry us over that cussed spot, and we'd all be
stiff before you could say Jinks."
Nothing daunted, Swift took the aeronaut by the arm, offered him a
cigar, and pointed towards the Buzzard mountains.
"That's just where we want to go. D'ye see those birds up there? If they
can stand it we can. This deadly what-you-call-it doesn't reach as high
as that."
The professor stared and then muttered to himself:
"Gee--mima! The feller's hit it right."
"Now, look here, professor! You're a famous man. Everybody knows _you_.
The _Planet_ charters your balloon for five hundred dollars. Is it a
go?"
The professor's eyes glittered yellow, the color of greed.
"I couldn't think of it. I couldn't risk the danger. It's an unknown
country, now--no, I couldn't."
"Call it six hundred."
"Impos-sible!"
"Seven!"
"That wouldn't pay me if she breaks."
"Eight hundred dollars!"
"Couldn't do it."
"Nine hundred dollars. I'm tired."
"Subtract eight and add a cipher, and I'm your man."
"Very well! Mr. Ticks is witness. I will give you five hundred when we
leave the ground, and the balance when we touch it again."
"Done!"
The two men shook hands over their bargain.
"Let me see," said Swift, glancing at his watch, "it is ten o'clock. We
will ascend at one."
"I will assist the professor in preparing his airship," said Mr. Ticks.
"By the way, how tall is your balloon, professor? What is her cognomen?"
"I call her _High Tariff_, mister. That's her name. You'll see it on
her. Wait till she gets her forty thousand cubic feet of gas in her, and
you'll see her height."
By twelve o'clock the multitude had got wind of the undertaking, and
were thronging towards the fenced enclosure, where the huge monster was
flapping with that inane motion that only a half-filled balloon can take
to itself. Rumors of the wildest description were afloat. By half-past
twelve the balloon was, to all appearance, full, and sandbags were being
put aboard. By one the crowd could hardly be kept back by self-sworn
marshals, and the balloon tugged at its warps as if it would burst its
bonds at the slightest provocation.
The _High Tariff_ now awakened the utmost enthusiasm. Men came by tens
and hundreds to make offers for the risky trip.
"Blank it all, she's chartered, the _High Tariff_ is," was the
aeronaut's invariable reply. "She don't belong to me this trip. Ask the
owners."
At ten minutes after one precisely Swift appeared upon the ground. He
had just sent off the following message to his paper:
"_Start immediately for Russell by thousand dollar balloon._"
He had sold his horse and team and had purchased provisions with the
proceeds. Five minutes after the sale the horse backed into the hotel
and smashed the buggy into Chinese joss-sticks.
Swift walked calmly to the car and ordered the provisions aboard.
"Have you a long ladder and grapnel?" he inquired.
"Two hundred and fifty feet each."
"Anchor?"
"Two hundred pounds."
"Are you ready, professor?" asked Swift, satisfied with his inspection.
"She's full to bustin'!" said the professor, looking uneasily at the
straining cable.
"Jump in, Mr. Ticks!" The crowd was almost beside itself at the boldness
of the undertaking. Men yelled and hooted encouragement as the venerable
and musty editor stepped into the car with a natural air. It took more
than this to embarrass Mr. Ticks.
"Now, professor!" As Swift spoke he handed the professor a draft on the
_Planet_ for five hundred dollars. The professor hesitated no longer. He
snatched the check and bounded in. An assistant stood ready with an axe
to cut the ropes that held the impatient balloon. Swift then stepped in
leisurely. It was just twenty-nine minutes and a quarter past one
o'clock. The crowd shrieked as if their throats would burst. Swift
lifted his hat in acknowledgment.
"Good luck!"
"Never say die!"
"Come back and tell us all about it."
"If you see my husband tell him I'm waiting for him."
They cheered and yelled and cried and cheered again.
"Are you ready?" asked Swift, looking at his companions.
"Then let her go!"
A cut, a swirl, an indescribable motion, and shouts became to those in
the _High Tariff_ whispers, men became ants, and they were gone.