PHAETON ROGERS

A NOVEL OF BOY LIFE

BY

ROSSITER JOHNSON

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
743 AND 745 BROADWAY
1881

COPYRIGHT BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1881

TROW'S
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
201-213 East 12th Street,
NEW YORK.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

[The Printing-Office]

[Rapid Transit by Cable]

[Rapid Transit by Car]

[The Boys Consult Jack-in-the-Box]

[Ned's Invention]

["The Whole Caravan went Roaring down the Turnpike"]

[Ned's Plan for a Press]

[The Meddlesome Poet]

[The Frame of a Comet]

["A Comet, Gentlemen—A Blazing Comet!"]

["It Rose Like a Fountain"]

[A Broken Poem]

["Jimmy Looked so Pale and Thin"]

["Ned Looked Up into the Face of a Policeman"]

[Phaeton is Taken for a Burglar]

["Jump Her, Boys! Jump Her!"]

["This Must Be Put in a Safe Place"]

[Phaeton's Fire-Extinguisher]

[The Kite on the Steeple]

[Discharging the Arrow]

[Riding Home in the Barouche]

[How the Chair was Mended]

[Taking Home the Chairs]

[The Boys Run the Red Rover]

[Bridal Favors]

PHAETON ROGERS.

CHAPTER I.

A MORNING CANTER.

Nothing is more entertaining than a morning canter in midsummer, while the dew is sparkling on the grass, and the robins are singing their joyful songs, and the east is reddening with the sunrise, and the world is waking up to enjoy these beautiful things a little, before the labors of the day begin.

And here is one of the many advantages of being a boy. When ladies and gentlemen ride horseback, it is considered necessary to have as many horses as riders; but an indefinite number of boys may enjoy a ride on one horse, all at the same time; and often the twenty riders who walk get a great deal more fun out of it than the one rider who rides. I think the best number of riders is three—one to be on the horse, and one to walk along on each side and keep off the crowd. For there is something so noble in the sight of a boy on a horse—especially when he is on for the first time—that, before he has galloped many miles, he is pretty certain to become the centre of an admiring throng, all eyes being turned upon the boy, and all legs keeping pace with the horse.

It falls to the lot of few boys to take such a ride more than once in a lifetime. Some, poor fellows! never experience it at all. But whatever could happen to any boy, in the way of adventure, was pretty sure to happen to Phaeton Rogers, who was one of those lucky fellows that are always in the middle of everything, and generally play the principal part. And yet it was not so much luck or accident as his own genius; for he had hardly come into the world when he began to try experiments with it, to see if he couldn't set some of the wheels of the universe turning in new directions. The name his parents gave him was Fayette; but the boys turned it into Phaeton, for a reason which will be explained in the course of the story.

It was my good fortune to live next door to the Rogers family, to know all of Phaeton's adventures, and have a part in some of them. One of the earliest was a morning canter in the country.

Phaeton was a little older than I; his brother Ned was just my age.

One day, their Uncle Jacob came to visit at their house, riding all the way from Illinois on his own horse. This horse, when he set out, was a dark bay, fourteen hands high, with one white foot, and a star on his forehead. At the first town where he staid overnight, it became an iron-gray, with a bob tail and a cast in its eye. At the next halt, the iron-gray changed into a chestnut, with two white feet and a bushy tail. A day or two afterward, he stopped at a camp-meeting, and when he left it the horse was a large roan, with just the hint of a springhalt in its gait. Then he came to a place where a county fair was being held, and here the roan became piebald. How many more changes that horse went through, I do not know; but, when it got to us, it was about eleven hands high (convenient size for boys), nearly white, with a few black spots,—so it could be seen for a long distance,—with nice thick legs, and long hair on them to keep them warm.

For these particulars, I am indebted to Ned, who overheard the conversation between his father and his uncle, and repeated it a few times to the boys.

Now, Mr. Rogers had no barn, and his brother Jacob, who arrived in the evening, had to tie his horse in the wood-shed for the night. He might have taken it to the "Cataract House, by James Tone," which was only a short distance away, and had a first-rate stable; but it was not the custom, in that part of the country, ever to patronize a hotel if you could by any possibility quarter yourself and your horse on a friend.

Just before bedtime, Ned came over to tell me that Phaeton was to take the horse to pasture in the morning, that he was going with him, and they would like my company also, adding:

"Uncle Jacob says that a brisk morning canter will do us good, and give us an appetite for breakfast."

"Yes," said I, "of course it will; and besides that, we can view the scenery as we ride by."

"We can, unless we ride too fast," said Ned.

"Does your uncle's horse go very fast?" said I, with some little apprehension, for I had never been on a horse.

"I don't exactly know," said Ned. "Probably not."

"Has Phaeton ever been on a horse?" said I.

"No," said Ned; "but he is reading a book about it, that tells you just what to do."

"And how far is the pasture?"

"Four miles,—Kidd's pasture,—straight down Jay street, past the stone brewery. Kidd lives in a yellow house on the right side of the road; and when we get there we're to look out for the dog."

"It must be pretty savage, or they wouldn't tell us to look out for it. Are you going to take a pistol?"

"No; Fay says if the dog comes out, he'll ride right over him. You can't aim a pistol very steadily when you are riding full gallop on horseback."

"I suppose not," said I. "I never tried it. But after we've left the horse in the pasture, how are we to get back past the dog?"

"If Fay once rides over that dog, on that horse," said Ned, in a tone of solemn confidence, "there won't be much bite left in him when we come back."

So we said good-night, and went to bed to dream of morning canters through lovely scenery, dotted with stone breweries, and of riding triumphantly into pasture over the bodies of ferocious dogs.

A more beautiful morning never dawned, and we boys were up not much later than the sun.

The first thing to do was to untie the horse; and as he had managed to get his leg over the halter-rope, this was no easy task. Before we had accomplished it, Ned suggested that it would be better not to untie him till after we had put on the saddle; which suggestion Phaeton adopted. The saddle was pretty heavy, but we found no great difficulty in landing it on the animal's back. The trouble was, to dispose of a long strap with a loop at the end, which evidently was intended to go around the horse's tail, to keep the saddle from sliding forward upon his neck. None of us liked to try the experiment of standing behind the animal to adjust that loop.

"He looks to me like a very kicky horse," said Ned; "and I wouldn't like to see any of us laid up before the Fourth of July."

Phaeton thought of a good plan. Accordingly, with great labor, Ned and I assisted him to get astride the animal, with his face toward the tail, and he cautiously worked his way along the back of the now suspicious beast. But the problem was not yet solved: if he should go far enough to lift the tail and pass the strap around it, he would slide off and be kicked. Ned came to the rescue with another idea. He got a stout string, and, standing beside the animal till it happened to switch its tail around that side, caught it, and tied the string tightly to the end. Then getting to a safe distance, he proposed to pull the string and lift the tail for his brother to pass the crupper under. But as soon as he began to pull, the horse began to kick; and not only to kick, but to rear, bumping Phaeton's head against the roof of the low shed, so that he was obliged to lie flat and hang on tight. While this was going on, their Uncle Jacob appeared, and asked what they were doing.

"Putting on the saddle, sir," said I.

"Yes, it looks like it," said he. "But I didn't intend to have you take the saddle."

"Why not, uncle?" said Phaeton.

"Because it is too heavy for you to bring back."

"Oh, but we can leave it there," said Phaeton. "Hang it up in Kidd's barn."

"No; that won't do," said his uncle. "Can't tell who might use it or abuse it. I'll strap on a blanket, and you can ride just as well on that."

"But none of us have been used to riding that way," said Ned.

Without replying, his uncle folded a blanket, laid it on the horse's back, and fastened it with a surcingle. He then bridled and led out the animal.

"Who rides first?" said he.

I was a little disappointed at this, for I had supposed that we should all ride at once. Still, I was comforted that he had not merely said, "Who rides?"—but "Who rides first?"—implying that we were all to ride in turn. Phaeton stepped forward, and his uncle lifted him upon the horse, and put the bridle-reins into his hand.

"I think you won't need any whip," said he, as he turned and went into the house.

The horse walked slowly down till he came to a full stop, with his breast against the front gate.

"Open the gate, Ned," said Phaeton.

"I can't do it, unless you back him," answered Ned. This was true, for the gate opened inward.

"Back, Dobbin!" said Phaeton, in a stern voice of authority, giving a vigorous jerk upon the reins.

But Dobbin didn't back an inch.

"Why don't you back him?" said Ned, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

"Why don't you open that gate?" said Phaeton.

By this time, three or four boys had gathered on the sidewalk, and were staring at our performance.

"Shall I hit him?" said Ned, breaking a switch.

"No," said Phaeton, more excited than before; "don't touch him! Back, Dobbin! Back!"

But Dobbin seemed to be one of those heroic characters who take no step backward.

"I know how to manage it," said Ned, as he ran to the wood-pile and selected a small round stick. Thrusting the end of this under the gate, he pried it up until he had lifted it from its hinges, when it fell over outward, coming down with a tremendous slam-bang upon the sidewalk. A great shiver ran through Dobbin, beginning at the tips of his ears, and ending at his shaggy fetlocks. Then, with a quick snort, he made a wild bound over the prostrate gate, and landed in the middle of the road.

I don't know how Phaeton managed to keep his seat, but he did; and though the boys on the sidewalk set up a shout, Dobbin stood perfectly still in the road, waiting for the next earthquake, or falling gate, or something, to give him another start.

"Come on, boys! Never mind the gate!" said Phaeton.

When he said "boys," he only meant Ned and me. But the boys on the sidewalk promptly accepted the invitation and came on, too.

"You walk on the nigh side," said Phaeton to me, "and let Ned take the off side."

I was rather puzzled as to his exact meaning; and yet I was proud to think that the boy who represented what might now be considered our party on horseback, as distinguished from the strangers on foot crowding alongside; was able to use a few technical terms. Not wishing to display my ignorance, I loitered a little, to leave the choice of sides to Ned, confident that he would know which was nigh and which was off. He promptly placed himself on the left side, near enough to seize his brother by the left leg, if need be, and either hold him on or pull him off. I, of course, then took a similar position on the right side.

"He told you to take the nigh side," shouted one of the boys to me.

"He's all right," said Phaeton. "I'd advise you to hurry home before your breakfast gets cold. We'll run this horse without any more help."

"Run him, will you?" answered the boy derisively. "That's what I'm waiting to see. He'll run so fast the grass'll grow under his feet."

"If there was a hot breakfast an inch ahead of your nose," said another of the boys, addressing Phaeton, "it'd be stone cold before you got to it."

Notwithstanding these sarcastic remarks, our horse was now perceptibly moving. He had begun to walk alone in the middle of the road, and—what at the time seemed to me very fortunate—he was going in the direction of the pasture.

"Can't you make him go faster, Fay?" said Ned.

"Not in this condition," said Phaeton. "You can't expect a horse without a saddle on him to make very good time."

"What difference does that make?" said I.

"You read the book, and you'll see," said Phaeton, in that tone of superior information which is common to people who have but just learned what they are talking about, and not learned it very well. "All the directions in the book are for horses with saddles on them. There isn't one place where it tells about a horse with just a blanket strapped over his back. If Uncle Jacob had let me take the saddle, and if I had a good pair of wheel-spurs, and a riding-whip, and a gag-bit in his mouth, you wouldn't see me here. By this time I should be just a little cloud of dust, away up there beyond the brewery. This animal shows marks of speed, and I'll bet you, if he was properly handled, he'd trot way down in the thirties."

So much good horse-talk, right out of a standard book, rather awed me. But I ventured to suggest that I could cut him a switch from the hedge, which Dobbin could certainly be made to feel, though it might not be so elegant as a riding-whip.

"Never mind it," said he. "It's no use; you can't expect much of any horse without saddle or spurs. And besides, what would become of you and Ned? You couldn't keep up."

I suggested that he might go on a mile or two and then return to meet us, and so have all the more ride. But he answered: "I'm afraid Uncle Jacob wouldn't like that. He expects us to go right to the pasture, without delay. You just wait till I get a good saddle, with Mexican stirrups, and wheel-spurs."

By this time, the boys who had been following us had dropped off. But at the next corner three or four others espied us, and gathered around.

"Why don't you make him go?" said one who had a switch in his hand, with which at the same time he gave Dobbin a smart blow on the flank.

A sort of shiver of surprise ran through Dobbin. Then he planted his fore feet firmly and evenly on the ground, as if he had been told to toe a mark, and threw out his hind ones, so that for an instant they formed a continuous straight line with his body. The boy who had struck him, standing almost behind him, narrowly escaped being sent home to his breakfast with no appetite at all.

"Lick those fellows!" said Phaeton to Ned and me, as he leaned over Dobbin's neck and seized his mane with a desperate grip.

"There are too many of them," said Ned.

"Well, lick the curly-headed one, any way," said Phaeton, "if he doesn't know better than to hit a horse with a switch."

Ned started for him, and the boy, diving through an open gate and dodging around a small barn, was last seen going over two or three back fences, with Ned all the while just one fence behind him.

When they were out of sight, the remaining boys turned their attention again to Dobbin, and one of them threw a pebble, which hit him on the nose and made him perform very much as before, excepting that this time he planted his hind feet and threw his fore feet into the air.

"Go for that fellow!" said Phaeton to me.

He struck off in a direction opposite to that taken by the curly-headed boy, and I followed him. It was a pretty rough chase that he led me; but he seemed to know every step of the way, and when he ran into the culvert by which the Deep Hollow stream passed under the canal, I gave it up, and made my way back. That he should have run from me, seemed at first a mystery, for he had a far better pugilistic record than I. But he probably ran because he was conscious of being in the wrong, as he had no shadow of right to throw a pebble at the nose of another boy's horse. This proves the power of a just cause.

Calculating that Phaeton must have passed on some distance by this time, I took a diagonal path across a field, and struck into the road near the stone brewery. Phaeton had not yet arrived, and I sat down in the shade of the building. Presently, Dobbin came up the road at a jog trot, with Phaeton wobbling around on his back, like a ball in a fountain. The cause of his speed was the clatter of an empty barrel-rack being driven along behind him.

On arriving at the brewery, he turned and, in spite of Phaeton's frantic "Whoas!" and rein-jerking, went right through a low-arched door, scraping off his rider as he passed in.

"So much for not having a gag-bit," said Phaeton, as he picked himself up. "I remember, Uncle Jacob said the horse had worked fifteen or sixteen years in a brewery. That was a long time ago, but it seems he hasn't forgotten it yet. And now I don't suppose we can ever get him out of there without a gag-bit."

He had hardly said this, however, when one of the brewery men came leading out Dobbin. Then the inquiry was for Ned, who had not been seen since he went over the third fence after the curly-headed boy who didn't know any better than to hit a horse with a switch. Phaeton decided that we must wait for him. In about fifteen minutes, one of the great brewery wagons came up the road, and as it turned in at the gate, Ned dropped from the hind axle, where he had been catching a ride.

After we had exchanged the stories of our adventures, Ned said it was now his turn to ride.

"I wish you could, Ned," said Phaeton; "but I don't dare trust you on his back. He's too fiery and untamable. It's all I can do to hold him."

Ned grumbled somewhat; but with the help of the brewery man, Phaeton remounted, and we set off again for Kidd's pasture. Ned and I walked close beside the horse, each with the fingers of one hand between his body and the surcingle, that we might either hold him or be taken along with him if he should again prove fiery and untamable.

When we got to the canal bridge, we found that a single plank was missing from the road-way. Nothing could induce Dobbin to step across that open space. All sorts of coaxing and argument were used, and even a few gentle digs from Phaeton's heels, but it was of no avail. At last he began to back, and Ned and I let go of the surcingle. Around he wheeled, and down the steep bank he went, like the picture of Putnam at Horseneck, landed on the tow-path, and immediately plunged into the water. A crowd of boys who were swimming under the bridge set up a shout, as he swam across with Phaeton on his back, and, climbing out on the other side, accompanied us along the road as far as the requirements of civilization would permit.

Ned and I crossed by the bridge.

"I only hope Uncle Jacob won't blame me if the horse takes cold," said Phaeton.

"Can't we prevent it?" said Ned.

"What can you do?" said Phaeton.

"I think we ought to rub him off perfectly dry, at once," said Ned. "That's the way Mr. Gifford's groom does."

"I guess that's so," said Phaeton. "You two go to that hay-stack over there, and get some good wisps to rub him down."

Ned and I each brought a large armful of hay.

"Now, see here, Fay," said Ned, "you've got to get off from that horse and help rub him. We're not going to do it all."

"But how can I get on again?" said Phaeton.

"I don't care how," said Ned. "You've had all the ride, and you must expect to do some of the work. If you don't, I'll let him die of quick consumption before I'll rub him."

This vigorous declaration of independence had a good effect. Phaeton slid down, and tied Dobbin to the fence, and we all set to work and used up the entire supply of hay in rubbing him dry.

After several unsuccessful attempts to mount him by bringing him close to the fence, Phaeton determined to lead him the rest of the way.

"Anyhow, I suppose he ought not to have too violent exercise after such a soaking as that," said he. "We'll let him rest a little."

As we were now beyond the limits of the town, the only spectators were individual boys and girls, who were generally swinging on farm-yard gates. Most of these, however, took interest enough to inquire why we didn't ride. We paid no attention to their suggestions, but walked quietly along,—Phaeton at the halter, and Ned and I at the sides,—as if guarding the sacred bull of Burmah.

About a mile of this brought us to Mr. Kidd's.

"What about riding over the dog?" said Ned.

"We can't very well ride over him to-day, when we've neither saddle nor spurs," said Phaeton; "but you two might get some good stones, and be ready for him."

Accordingly we two selected some good stones. Ned crowded one into each of his four pockets, and carried one in each hand. I contented myself with two in my hands.

"There's no need of getting so many," said Phaeton. "For if you don't hit him the first time, he'll be on you before you can throw another."

This was not very comforting; but we kept on, and Ned said it wouldn't do any harm to have plenty of ammunition. When we reached the house, there was no dog in sight, excepting a small shaggy one asleep on the front steps.

"You hold Dobbin," said Phaeton to me, "while I go in and make arrangements."

I think I held Dobbin about half a minute, at the end of which time he espied an open gate at the head of a long lane leading to the pasture, jerked the halter from my hand, and trotted off at surprising speed. When Phaeton came out of the house, of course I told him what had happened.

"But it's just as well," said I, "for he has gone right down to the pasture."

"No, it isn't just as well," said he; "we must get off the halter and blanket."

"But what about the dog?" said Ned.

"Oh, that one on the steps won't hurt anybody. The savage one is down in the wood-lot."

At this moment a woman appeared at the side door of the farm-house, looked out at us, and understood the whole situation in a moment.

"I suppose you hadn't watered your horse," said she, "and he's gone for the creek."

Phaeton led the way to the pasture, and we followed. I shouldn't like to tell you how very long we chased Dobbin around that lot, trying to corner him. We tried swift running, and we tried slow approaches. I suggested salt. Ned pretended to fill his hat with oats, and walked up with coaxing words. But Dobbin knew the difference between a straw hat and a peck measure.

"I wish I could remember what the book says about catching your horse," said Phaeton.

"I wish you could," said I. "Why didn't you bring the book?"

"I will next time," said he, as he started off in another desperate attempt to corner the horse between the creek and the fence.

Nobody can tell how long this might have kept up, had not an immense black dog appeared, jumping over the fence from the wood-lot.

Phaeton drew back and looked about for a stone. Ned began tugging at one of those in his pockets, but couldn't get it out. Instead of coming at us, the dog made straight for Dobbin, soon reached him, seized the halter in his teeth, and brought him to a full stop, where he held him till we came up. It only took a minute or two to remove the blanket and halter, and turn Dobbin loose, while a few pats on the head and words of praise made a fast friend of the dog.

With these trappings over our arms, we turned our steps homeward. As we drew near the place where we had given Dobbin the rubbing down to keep him from taking cold, we saw a man looking over the fence at the wet wisps of hay in the road.

"I wonder if that man will expect us to pay for the hay," said Phaeton.

"It would be just like him," said Ned. "These farmers are an awful stingy set."

"I haven't got any money with me," said Phaeton; "but I know a short cut home."

Ned and I agreed that any shortening of the homeward journey would be desirable just now,—especially as we were very hungry.

He led the way, which required him to go back to the first cross-road, and we followed. It seemed to me that the short cut home was about twice as long as the road by which we had come, but as I also was oppressed with a sense of having no money with me, I sympathized with Phaeton, and made no objection. When I found that the short cut led through the Deep Hollow culvert, I confess to some vague fears that the boy I had chased into the culvert might dam up the water while we were in there, or play some other unpleasant trick on us, and I was glad when we were well through it with only wet feet and shoulders spattered by the drippings from the arch.

We got home at last, and Phaeton told his uncle that Dobbin was safe in the pasture, at the same time giving him to understand that we were—as we always say at the end of a composition—much pleased with our brisk morning canter. But the boys couldn't help talking about it, and gradually the family learned every incident of the story. When Mr. Rogers heard about the hay, he sent Phaeton with some money to pay for it, but the stingy farmer said it was no matter, and wouldn't take any pay. But he asked Phaeton where we were going, and told him he had a pasture that was just as good as Kidd's, and nearer the town.

CHAPTER II.

RAPID TRANSIT.

If Phaeton Rogers was not an immediate success as a rider of horses, he certainly did what seemed some wonderful things in the way of inventing conveyances for himself and other people to ride.

One day, not long after our adventures with Dobbin, Ned and I found him sitting under the great plane-tree in the front yard, working with a knife at some small pieces of wood, which he put together, making a frame like this:

"What are you making, Fay?" said Ned.

"An invention," said Phaeton, without looking up from his work.

"What sort of invention? A new invention?"

"It would have to be new or it wouldn't be an invention at all."

"But what is it for?"

"For the benefit of mankind, like all great inventions."

"It seems to me that some of the best have been for the benefit of boykind," said Ned. "But what is the use of trying to be too smart? Let us know what it is. We're not likely to steal it, as Lem Woodruff thinks the patent-lawyer stole his idea for a double-acting washboard."

Phaeton was silent, and worked away. Ned and I walked out at the gate and turned into the street, intending to go swimming. We had not gone far when Phaeton called "Ned!" and we turned back.

"Ned," said he, "don't you want to lend me the ten dollars that Aunt Mercy gave you last week?"

Their Aunt Mercy was an unmarried lady with considerable property, who was particularly good to Ned. When Phaeton was a baby she wanted to name him after the man who was to have been her husband, but who was drowned at sea.

Mrs. Rogers would not consent, but insisted upon naming the boy Fayette, and Aunt Mercy had never liked him, and would never give him anything, or believe that he could do anything good or creditable. She was a little deaf, and if it was told her that Phaeton had taken a prize at school, she pretended not to hear; but whenever Ned got one she had no trouble at all in hearing about it, and she always gave him at least a dollar or two on such occasions. For when Ned was born she was allowed to do what she had wanted to do with Fayette, and named him Edmund Burton, after her long-lost lover. Later, she impressed it upon him that he was never to write his name E. B. Rogers, nor Edmund B. Rogers, but always Edmund Burton Rogers, if he wanted to please her, and be remembered in her will. She never called him anything but Edmund Burton. Whereas, she pretended not to remember Fayette's name at all, and would twist it in all sorts of ways, calling him Layit and Brayit, and Fater and Faylen, and once she called him Frenchman-what's-his-name, which was as near as she ever came to getting it right.

"Why should I lend you my ten dollars?" said Ned. "For the information you kindly gave us about your invention?"

"Oh, as to that," said Phaeton, "I've no objection to telling you two about it, now that I have thought it all out. I did not care to tell you before, because I was studying on it."

"All right; go ahead," said Ned, as we seated ourselves on the grass, and Phaeton began.

"It is called the Underground Railway. You see, there are some places—like the city of New York, for instance—where the buildings are so close together, and land is worth so much, that they can't build railroads enough to carry all the people back and forth. And so they have been trying, in all sorts of ways, to get up something that will do it—something different from a common railroad."

"Balloons would be the thing," said Ned.

"No; balloons won't do," said Phaeton. "You can't make them 'light where you want them to. I've thought of a good many ways, but there was some fault in all of them but this last one."

"Tell us about the others first," said Ned.

"I'll show you one of them," said Phaeton, and he drew from his pocket a small sheet of paper, which he unfolded.

"This," said he, "represents the city of New York. A is some place far up-town where people live; B is the Battery, which is down-town where they do the business. I suppose you both know what a mortar is?"

"A cannon as big around as it is long," said Ned.

"And shoots bomb-shells," said I.

"That's it," said Phaeton. "Now here, you see, is a big mortar up-town; only, instead of shooting a bomb-shell, it shoots a car. This car has no wheels, and has a big knob of India-rubber on the end for a buffer. When you get it full of people, you lock it up tight and touch off the mortar. This dotted mark represents what is called the line of flight. You see, it comes down into another sort of mortar, which has a big coiled spring inside, to stop it easy and prevent it from smashing. Then the depot-master puts up a long step-ladder and lets the people out."

Ned said he should like to be the one to touch off the mortar.

"And why wasn't that a good plan?" said I.

"There are some serious objections to it," said Phaeton, in a knowing way. "For instance, you can't aim such a thing very true when the wind is blowing hard, and people might not like to ride in it on a windy day. Besides, some people have a very strong prejudice, you know, against any sort of fire-arms."

"There wouldn't be much chance for a boy to catch a ride on it," said Ned, as if that were the most serious objection of all. "But tell us about the real invention."

"The real invention," said Phaeton, "is this," and he took up the little frame we had seen him making. Taking an India-rubber string from his pocket, he stretched it from one of the little posts to the other, and fastened it.

"Now," said he, "suppose there was a fly that lived up at this end, and had his office down at that end. He gets his breakfast, and takes his seat right here," and he laid his finger on the string, near one of the posts. "I call out, 'All aboard!' and then——"

Here Phaeton, who had his knife in his hand, cut the string in two behind the imaginary fly.

"Where is the fly now?" said he. "At his office doing business—"

"I don't understand," said Ned.

"I've only half explained it," said Phaeton. "Now, you see, it's easy enough to make a tunnel under-ground and run cars through. But a tunnel always gets full of smoke when a train goes through, which is very disagreeable, and if you send a train every fifteen minutes, all the passengers would choke. So, you see, there must be something instead of an engine and a train of cars. I propose to dig a good tunnel wherever the road wants to go, and make it as long as you please. Right through the centre I pass an India-rubber cable as large as a man's leg, and stretch it tight and fasten it to great posts at each end. All the men and boys who want to go sit on at one end, as if on horseback. When everything is ready, the train-despatcher takes a sharp axe, and with one blow clips the cable in two behind them, and zip they go to the other end before you can say Jack Robinson."

Ned said he should like to be train-despatcher.

"They'd all have to hang on like time," said I.

"Of course they would," said Phaeton; "but there are little straps for them to take hold by."

"And would there be a tub at the other end," said Ned "to catch the passengers that were broken to pieces against the end wall?"

"Oh, pshaw!" said Phaeton. "Don't you suppose I have provided for that?"

The fact was, Phaeton had spent more study on the question of landing his passengers safely than on any other part of his invention. It was not the first instance since the days of the hand-mill that made the sea salt, in which it had been found easy to set a thing going, but difficult to stop it.

"There are several ways," said he, continuing his explanation, "to let the passengers off safely. I haven't decided yet what I'll adopt. One way is, to have a sort of brake to squeeze down on the cable and make it stop gradually. I don't exactly like that, because it would wear out the cable, and these cables are going to cost a great deal of money. Another way is, to throw them against a big, soft mattress, like pins in a bowling-alley. But even that would hurt a little, I guess, no matter how soft you made the mattress. The best way is, to have it drop them in a tank of water."

"What! and get all wet?" said Ned.

"Don't be in a hurry," said Phaeton. "Each one would wear an India-rubber water-proof garment (a sort of over-dress), covering him all over and fastened up tight. Of course, these would be provided by the company."

"But wouldn't it use up a cable every time you cut it?" said Ned.

"Not at all; it could be stretched again by hitching a team of horses to the end and drawing it back, and then we should solder it together with melted India-rubber. Probably a dozen teams would be at work at night stretching cables for use next day. You see, we should have as many cables as the business of the road required."

I have never known whether Phaeton was sincere in all this, or whether he was simply fooling Ned and me. I have since suspected that he had a purpose which did not appear at the time. At any rate, we took it all in and believed it all, and looked upon him as one of the world's great inventors.

"And what do you want the ten dollars for?" said Ned.

"Well, you know nothing can be done without more or less money," said Phaeton. "The first thing is, to get up a model to send to the Patent-Office, and get a patent on it."

"What's that?" said Ned.

"What's what?"

"A model."

"A model," said Phaeton, "is a little one, with tunnel and all complete, to show how it works."

"But a tunnel," said Ned, "is a hole in the ground. You can't send a hole in the ground to the Patent-Office, no matter how small you make it."

"Oh, pshaw! Don't you understand? There would be a little wooden tube or shell, painted red, to represent the brick-work that the real tunnel would be arched in with."

"Well, what then?"

"I suppose it would cost about ten dollars to get up a model. If it's going to the Patent-Office it doesn't want to be botched up with a pocket-knife."

"Of course not," said Ned. "But the model will be only a beginning. It will take a great deal more money than that to build the real thing."

"Now you talk business," said Phaeton. "And I'm ready to talk with you. I've thought it all out. I got an idea from the way that Father says Mr. Drake manages to build so many houses."

"Let's hear about it."

"There are two ways to get the thing into operation. One is, to try it first in this town. You know we boys could dig the tunnel ourselves, and it wouldn't cost anything."

"Yes, I suppose so—if enough boys would take hold."

"Then we could give a mortgage on the tunnel, and so raise money to buy the cable, and there you are."

"That's all very fine," said Ned; "but they foreclose mortgages. And if there was a mortgage on our tunnel, and they foreclosed it while we were in there, what would become of us? How should we ever get out?"

Phaeton laughed.

"I'll tell you how we'll fix it," said he. "We'll have a secret shaft leading out of the tunnel, and not let the man we give the mortgage to know anything about it."

Ned didn't exactly know whether he was being quizzed or not.

"What's the other way of getting the thing into operation?" said he.

"The other way," said Phaeton, "is to go to New York and see Uncle Silas, and have him get up a company to start it there."

"I think I like that way best," said Ned. "But, to tell you the truth, I had made arrangements to do something else with that ten dollars."

Phaeton looked disappointed.

"Then why didn't you say so in the first place?" said he, as he put his things into his pocket and turned to walk away.

"Don't get mad, Fay," said Ned. "Perhaps we can get another ten."

"Where can we get it?"

"Of Aunt Mercy."

"You might, but I can't."

"Well, I'll try to get it for you, if you'll let me take your machine."

"All right," said Phaeton. "When will you go?"

"I might as well go this evening as any time," said Ned.

So it was agreed that he should visit his Aunt Mercy that evening, and see if she would advance the money for a model. I was to go with him, but Phaeton was to be kept entirely in the background.

"Do you suppose Fay can really make anything out of this machine?" said Ned to me, as we were on the way to his Aunt Mercy's.

"I should think he might," said I. "For he is certainly a genius, and he seems to have great faith in it."

"At any rate, we might as well get fifteen dollars while we are about it," said Ned.

"I suppose we might," said I.

CHAPTER III.

AUNT MERCY.

"Good evening, Aunty."

"Good evening, Edmund Burton."

Aunt Mercy was sipping a cup of tea, and reading the evening paper.

"What's the news, Aunty?"

"Another railroad accident, of course."

"Nobody hurt, I hope?"

"Yes; a great many. I wonder that anybody's foolhardy enough to ride on the railroads."

"How did it happen?" said Ned, beginning to think it was a poor time to get money for a railroad invention.

"Train ran off the track," said Aunt Mercy, "and ran right down an embankment. Seems to me they always do. I don't see why they have so many embankments."

"They ought not to," said Ned. "If they only knew it, there's a way to make a railroad without any track, or any wheels to run off the track, or any embankment to run down if they did run off."

"You don't say so, Edmund Burton! What sort of a railroad would that be?"

"I happen to have the plan of one with me," said Ned.

"Edmund Burton! What do you mean?"

"I mean this," said Ned, pulling from his pocket the little frame with a rubber string stretched on it. "It's a new invention; hasn't been patented yet."

"Edmund Burton!" was all his aunt could say.

"I'll explain it to you, Aunty," said Ned, as he picked up the newspaper which she had dropped, and rolled it into a tube.

"This," said he, "represents a tunnel, a big round hole, you know, as big as this room, bored along in the ground. It goes right through rocks and everything, and is perfectly straight. No dangerous curves. And this"—showing the frame and then passing it into the paper tube—"represents an India-rubber cable as large as a stove-pipe. It is stretched out as far as possible, and fastened tight to posts at the ends."

"Edmund Burton!"

"Now, Aunty, we'll call this end Albany, and this end Buffalo."

"Edmund Burton!"

"All the men and boys in Albany that want to go to Buffalo could come down to the depot, and get on the cable right there, sitting just as if they were on horseback, and there will be nice little straps for them to hold on by."

"Edmund Burton!"

"When everybody's ready, the train-despatcher just picks up a sharp axe, and with one blow cuts the cable in two, right here, and zip! the passengers find themselves in Buffalo. No boiler to burst, no track to get off from, no embankment to plunge down, no wheels to get out of order."

"Edmund Burton, you are a genius! But ladies can't ride that way."

"Of course not," said Ned, catching an idea. "We have a car for the ladies. This"—and he picked up a spool of thread and a lead pencil, and passed the pencil through the spool—"represents it. The pencil represents the cable, and the spool represents the car, which is fastened tight on the cable. When the ladies are all in, it is locked up, and then the cable is cut behind it."

"Edmund Burton!"

"And the great advantage of it is, that the car is perfectly round, and so whichever way it might happen to turn, it would always be right side up, for every side is the right side!"

"Edmund Burton, you are a genius!"

"But you mustn't tell anybody about it, Aunty, for it hasn't been patented yet."

"Why don't you patent it, Edmund Burton?"

"We think of doing so, Aunty, but it will cost more money than we have just now. The first thing is to get up a model."

"What's that, Edmund Burton?"

"A little one, with tunnel and everything complete, to show how it works. That has to go to the Patent-Office and be put in a glass case."

"And how much will it cost to make a muddle, Edmund Burton?"

"Fay says he thinks one could be made for ten dollars; but I suppose more money would build a better one."

"Your brother knows nothing about it, Edmund Burton. He would get up a miserable cheap muddle, and disgrace the family. Don't let him have anything to do with it. Jane!"—calling to the servant—"bring me my pocket-book from the right-hand corner of my top bureau drawer."

Jane brought it.

"How much will it take for a good muddle, Edmund Burton?" said his Aunt Mercy, as she opened her pocket-book.

"I should think fifteen dollars ought to be a great plenty," said Ned, and she handed him a crisp new ten-dollar bill and a five.

"Thank you, Aunty."

"You're welcome, child. Always come to me when you want money to make a muddle. But mind what I tell you, Edmund Burton. Don't let that numskull brother of yours have anything to do with it, and be sure you get up a handsome muddle that will do credit to the family."

"Yes, Aunty. Good-night!"

"Good-night! But come and kiss me before you go, Edmund Burton."

"Don't you think," said Ned, as we were walking home, "before Fay goes any further with this invention, and spends money on it, he'd better talk with somebody who knows more about such things than we do?"

I didn't quite know whether Ned said this because he was really anxious about the fate of the invention, or because he did not like to part with the money, now that he actually had it. Some people are always ready to say that they would lend money to a friend, if they had it; but when they feel it in their hands, they are not in such a hurry to let it go out. However, I thought this was a good idea, whatever might be Ned's reason for suggesting it; so I said, "Certainly, he ought! Who do you think would be the best person for him to talk with?"

"I don't know anybody better than Jack-in-the-Box," said Ned. "Of course he knows all about railroads."

"Of course he does," said I, "and he'll be glad to help us. Jack-in-the-Box is the very one!"

CHAPTER IV.

JACK-IN-THE-BOX.

The box was a red box, about five feet square and eight feet high, with a pointed top. Jack was about five feet nine inches high, with a brown beard and mustache and dark hazel eyes, and might have been twenty-six years old, possibly older. When he was in the box, he wore a blue blouse and dark trousers and a small cloth cap. The only time I ever saw him away from the box was on Sundays, when he always came to the Presbyterian Church, and sat in pew No. 79. One of the great pillars that supported the gallery was planted in this pew, and spoiled nearly the whole of it; but there was a comfortable seat for one at the outer end, and Jack had that seat. The box had two small square windows on opposite sides. On another side was a door, with 248 over it. The fourth side was covered in summer with morning-glory vines, planted by Jack, and trained to run up on strings. A stove-pipe about as large as your arm stuck out at the top. When Jack looked out at one of his windows, he looked up the railroad; when he looked out at the other, he looked down the railroad; when he stepped out of his door, he stood beside the track, and on those occasions he generally had in his hand either a red flag or a red lantern.

Close beside the box rose a tall, heavy pole, with a cross-piece on the top and short iron rods stuck through it at intervals all the way up. A rope passed over pulleys in the ends of the cross-piece, and Jack used to hoist sometimes three white balls, sometimes two red balls, at night tying on white or red lanterns below the balls.

To us boys, Jack was a delightful character, in an enviable situation, but to older people he was a mystery. I remember one day I was walking with Father, when Mr. Briggs joined us, and as we came in sight of the box, Jack was rolling up his flag, a train having just gone by.

"What do you make of that young man?" said Mr. Briggs.

"I don't know what to make of him," said Father. "He is evidently not the sort of man they generally have in those positions. You can tell by his speech and manner, and his whole appearance, that he is an educated man and a gentleman."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Briggs. "If you peep in at the window, you will see a shelf full of books. He seems to have taken this way to make a hermit of himself—not a bad way, either, in these modern times, when there are no uninhabited wilds to retire to, and when a little money income is absolutely necessary to existence."

"I should like to know his history," said Father.

"Either he has committed some crime—forgery, perhaps—and escaped," said Mr. Briggs, "or he has quarrelled with his family, or in some way been disappointed."

"I don't think it's for any crime," said Father; "his appearance forbids that."

"Still, you can't always tell," said Mr. Briggs. "I tried to make his acquaintance once, but did not succeed. I am told he repels all advances. Even the Presbyterian minister, whose church he attends, can't get at him."

"I understand he likes the boys, and makes their acquaintance," said Father.

We had now arrived at our gate, and Mr. Briggs said good evening, and passed on.

It was true that Jack-in-the-Box was partial to boys; in fact, nobody else could make his acquaintance. He liked to have us come and talk with him, but never wanted more than two or three to come at a time. Perhaps this was on account of the size of the box. We used to consult him on all sorts of occasions, and got a great many shrewd hints and useful bits of information from him.

The inside of the box was a romance to me. I never saw so many things in so small a space. In one corner was a stove about as large as a coffee-pot, and beside it a sheet-iron coal-box, not much larger. In another corner stood the red flag, when it was furled, and a hatchet. Behind the door, hung flat on the wall, was a large coil of rope. Overhead, on one side, was a shelf, nearly filled with tools and trinkets. On the opposite side—lower, but still over the window—was another shelf, filled with books. I took a special interest in this shelf, and studied the backs of the books so often, that I think I can give the title of every one, in their order. They were, beginning at the left hand, a Bible, "Essays of Elia," "Henry Esmond," "Life of Columbus," "Twice-told Tales," "Anatomy of Melancholy," "Modern Painters," "The Shadows of the Clouds," "The Middle Ages," "Undine and Sintram," "Tales of the Great St. Bernard," "Sordello," "Divina Commedia," "Sophoclis Tragoediæ," "Demosthenis Orationes," "Platonis Dialogi," "Q. Horatii Flacci Opera," "Robinson Crusoe," "Byron's Poems," and Shakespeare. I was so curious about them, that I copied off all the hard ones on a card, and, when I went home, tried to find out what they were.

Under the book-shelf, at one side of the window, fastened to the wall, was a little alarm-clock. Jack knew exactly what time every train would come along. As soon as one had passed, and he had rolled up his flag, he used to set the alarm so that it would go off two minutes before the next train was due. Then he could sit down with his book, and be sure of not forgetting his duty.

Jack generally sat in a sort of easy chair with one arm to it, on which a board was fastened in such a way as to make a little writing-desk. The space under the seat of the chair was boxed, with a little door on one side, and in there he kept his stationery.

Hardly a day passed that Jack did not have boy visitors. There were only two things about him that seemed singular to me. We could never find out his real name. He told us to call him simply Jack; whereupon Isaac Holman said the full name must be Jack-in-the-Box, and after that we always called him by the full name. The other queer thing was, that he was never known to read a newspaper. The boys sometimes brought one to him, but he always said he didn't care about it, and would not open it. Father and Mr. Briggs appeared to think it very strange that he should live in that box and attend to the flags and signals. To me it seemed the most delightful life imaginable, and Jack-in-the-Box was one of my heroes. I often thought that if I could choose my own station in life, my choice would be a flag-station on the railroad.

Phaeton adopted Ned's suggestion as to consulting Jack-in-the-Box about his invention, and we three went together to see him.

When we got there, the door of the box stood wide open; everything seemed to be in its place, but Jack had disappeared.

"Probably gone up the road, to flag an extra train," said Phaeton. "No, he hasn't, for there's his flag in its place in the corner."

"He can't have been murdered," said Ned, "or they would have robbed the box. Must be suicide. Perhaps we'd better take charge of his things."

"I wouldn't be in a hurry about that," said Phaeton.

"Or he may have been run over by a train that he didn't see," said Ned, getting excited, and examining the rails in search of blood-marks. "If he was trying to remember all that funny-looking Greek stuff in some of those books, I shouldn't think he would notice a train, or anything else. And we'll all have to sit on the coroner's jury. Poor Jack! I don't believe we can say the train was to blame, or make it pay damages. I think I should like to sit near the feet; for he had handsome feet and only wore number six boots. He was an awful good fellow, too. But that'll take us out of school one day, anyway."

"So you think there is no great loss without some small gain," said Phaeton.

"I didn't say so!" said Ned, a little offended at this plain interpretation of his last sentence. "I feel as badly as anybody about Jack's death. But, at any rate, they'll have to do something with his property. I suppose, if he had no relations—and I never heard of any—they'll give it to his best friends. I think I should like the alarm-clock, and the chair, and perhaps a few of the tools. What will you take?" turning to me.

"I think I should like to take his place, if anything," said I.

Ned took a look at the box.

"I tell you what it is," said he, "the prettiest design for a monument over Jack's grave would be a box just like that—all cut in marble, of course—with Jack's name and age on the door, and beside it a signal-pole struck by lightning and broken off in the middle, or something of that sort."

A slight noise, or else the allusion to the signal-pole, caused us to look up. There was Jack coming down, with an oil-can in his hand! He had been at the top oiling the pulleys, and had probably heard every word we said, for there was a quiet smile all over his face.

"Good morning, Jack," said Phaeton, who seldom lost his presence of mind.

"Good morning, boys. I'm glad to see you," said Jack.

As soon as Ned and I could recover from our abashment, we also said good morning.

"Is there anything I can do for you to-day?" said Jack, as he set away the oil-can, observing that Phaeton had the little frame and a small drawing in his hand.

"Yes, sir," said Phaeton. "I want to get your advice about a little invention that I've been making."

"It's a new kind of railroad," said Ned; "and we thought you'd be the one to know all about railroads. Beats these common railroads all to nothing. Why, three months after ours is introduced, and the public understand it, they'll have to take up this track and sell it for old iron."

Ned had thoroughly identified himself with the invention, and thought it was as much his as Phaeton's.

"But then," he added thoughtfully, "that would spoil your business, Jack. And we should be sorry to do that."

Jack smiled, and said it didn't matter; he wouldn't wish to let his private interests obstruct the march of improvement.

Phaeton explained the invention to Jack, illustrating it with a rubber-string stretched on the frame, just as he had explained it to us.

"I see," said Jack. "Quite a novel idea."

"We haven't made up our minds," said Ned, "what sort of depot we'll have. But it'll be either a big tank full of water, or an awful soft mattress."

"How is that?" said Jack.

"Why, you see," said Ned, "this railroad of ours is going to go like lightning. There's no trouble about its going."

"None whatever," said Jack.

"But it's going to stop rather sudden."

"How so?" said Jack.

"I mean the trains," said Ned. "That is, the cables. They're going to fetch up with a bang at the other end. At least, they would, if we hadn't thought of a way to prevent it. Because it wouldn't do to break the heads of all the passengers every time."

"No," said Jack. "That would be too much."

"Too much," said Ned. "And so you see the depot must be some sort of contrivance to let 'em off easy."

"Of course," said Jack.

"And the first thing anybody thinks of is a bowling-alley, and the pins flying every which way."

"Quite naturally," said Jack.

"And that makes you think of a soft mattress to stop them. But Fay thinks it would be better, on some accounts, to drop them into a big tank of water."

"I suppose in winter you would have the water warmed?" said Jack.

"Of course we should; though we hadn't thought of it before," said Ned.

"And that would give the passengers a ride and a bath, all for the price of one ticket," said Jack.

"Certainly; and you see that would be favorable to the poor," said Ned, willing to indulge in the joke.

"Exactly; a great boon to mankind," said Jack. "And I think it would not only make them cleaner, but more religious."

"How so?" said Ned.

"Well, I think every passenger would feel like saying his prayers, as the train, or cable, drew near the getting-off station."

Phaeton and I burst out laughing.

"I'm afraid you're only making fun of our invention," said Ned.

"Not I," said Jack. "I like to encourage the inventive faculty in boys."

"Well, then, tell us honestly," said Ned,—"where would you introduce it first? Would you go to New York, and build it under Broadway at once? Or would you go slow, and try it first in this town, on a rather small scale?"

"I think I'd go slow," said Jack.

"And where would be the best place to build it?"

"You'll have to survey the town," said Jack, "and find out where there is the most travel."

"We thought we'd dig the tunnel ourselves," said Ned, "and then give a mortgage on the tunnel, and raise the money to buy the cable."

"I see you have the true business idea," said Jack. "In that case, I think you'd better build it wherever you find the softest dirt."

"That's worth thinking about," said Ned. "And now, Jack, I'll tell you what 'tis. We don't want to throw you out of employment; and when our road's running, and this one stops, you shall have a good situation on ours. There won't be any signal stations, but you may be the train-despatcher—the one that chops off the cable, you know."

"Thank you," said Jack. "I'll think about it."

"It will probably be good pay," said Ned, "and it's certain to be lots of fun."

"Oh, there can be no doubt whatever about that," said Jack, drily.

"Good morning!"

"Good morning!"

"Jack-in-the-Box takes a deep interest in our invention," said Ned, in a low, confidential tone, as we walked away. "I can see that he thinks it's going to be a great success."

Phaeton burst out laughing.

"What are you laughing about?" said Ned.

"I am laughing to think how Jack-in-the-Box fooled you to the top of your bent."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the thing won't do at all; and he saw it wouldn't, as soon as he looked at it; but he thought he wouldn't say so. He just liked to hear you talk."

"Do you think so?" said Ned to me.

"I'm afraid it's true," said I.

"Well," said Ned, growing a little red in the face, "I don't care. It's no invention of mine, anyway. It was all your idea, Fay."

"Oh, was it?" said Phaeton. "When I heard you talk to Jack-in-the-Box about it, I began to think it was all yours."

"If I was going to make an invention," said Ned, "I'd make one that would work—something practical."

"All right," said Phaeton; "you're at liberty to do so if you wish. I should be glad if you would."

"Well, I will," said Ned. "I'll make one to beat yours all hollow."

Three or four days afterward, Ned came to me with a look on his face that showed he had something important in his mind.

"Can you go?" said he, almost in a whisper.

"That depends on where you're going," said I.

"To see Jack-in-the-Box," said he.

"Yes, I always like to go to the Box," said I. "But I've got to split these kindlings first."

"Oh, never mind your kindlings! You can split those any time. I've got a sure thing now; and if Jack says it's all right, I'll let you go partnership."

Of course, this was more important than any paltry consideration of lighting the fires next morning; so I threw down the hatchet, and we started.

"I think we'd better go by the postern," said I.

Postern was a word we had found frequently used in "The Haunted Castle;" and we had looked out its meaning in the dictionary. Whenever we thought it desirable to get away from the house without being seen,—as, for instance, when we were leaving kindlings unsplit,—we climbed over the back fence, and called it "going by the postern."

"All right," said Ned, for in these things he was a wise boy, and a word to him was sufficient.

"What is it?" said I, as soon as we were fairly out of sight of the house. "Tell me all about it."

"Wait till we get to Jack's," said he.

"Has your Aunt Mercy given you money to make a muddle of it?" said I.

"That troubles me a little—that fifteen dollars," said Ned. "You see, we got it honestly; we thought Fay's invention was going to be a great thing, and we must have money to start. But now, if Aunt Mercy knew it was a failure, it would look to her very much as if we had swindled her."

"Not if you gave her back the money," said I.

"But I don't exactly like to do that," said Ned. "It's always a good thing to have a little money. And, besides, she'd lose faith in me, and think I couldn't invent anything. And next time, when we had really made a good thing, she'd think it was only another failure, and wouldn't furnish the money. That's one reason why I made this invention that I have in my pocket now. We can use the money on this, and tell Aunt Mercy we changed off from the Underground Railroad to a better thing."

"How do you do to-day, Jack?"

"Pretty well, thank you! How are you? Come in, boys; I'm glad to see you."

"Would you be willing to look at another invention for us?"

"Certainly; with the greatest pleasure."

"I hope it will turn out to be better than the other—that is, more practical," said Ned. "But you see, Jack, that was our first invention, and I suppose we can only improve by practice."

"That is about the only way," said Jack. "What is your second invention?"

Ned drew a bit of paper from his pocket.

"The other day," said he, "I heard Father reading a piece in the newspaper about a church that was struck by lightning, although it had a lightning-rod. The reason was, that the rod was broken apart at one place, and nobody had noticed it, or if they had, they didn't take the trouble to fix it. People are always careless about those things. And so they lost their church. Father says there are a good many things that spoil lightning-rods. He says, if there's rust in the joints they won't work."

"That's true," said Jack.

"Well, then, all this set me to thinking whether I couldn't invent a lightning-rod that would be a sure thing. And here you have it," said Ned, as he unfolded his paper.

Jack looked at it.

"I don't understand it," said he, "you'll have to explain."

"Of course you don't," said Ned. "I will explain."

Jack said he was all attention.

"What does fire do to ice?" said Ned, taking on the tone of a school-master.

"Melts it," said Jack.

"Right," said Ned. "And when ice is melted, it becomes what?"

"Water," said Jack.

"Right again!" said Ned. "And water does what to fire?"

"Puts it out," said Jack.

"Exactly so," said Ned. "And there you have it—action and reaction. That's the principle."

I think Ned borrowed his style of explanation not so much from the school-master as from a young man who appeared in the streets one day, selling a sort of stuff to clean the teeth, calling a crowd around him, and trying it on the teeth of one or two boys.

"That's all true," said Jack; "but how do you apply it to lightning-rods?"

"Here is a picture," said Ned, "of a house with a rod on it. The family think it's all right, and don't feel afraid when it thunders. But that rod may be broken somewhere, or may be rusted in the joints, and they not know it. What then? We simply fasten a large ball of ice—marked I in the illustration—to the rod at R—freeze it on tight. You see it isn't likely there will be any break, or any rusty joint, between the point of the rod and the ball."

"Not likely," said Jack.

"But there may be one lower down."

"There may be," said Jack; "though there couldn't be one higher down."

Ned was too intent on his invention to notice this criticism on his expression.

"We'll say a thunder-storm comes up," said he. "The lightning strikes this rod. What then? In an instant, in the flash of an eye, the lightning melts that ball of ice—it becomes water—in another instant that water puts out the lightning—and the family are safe!"

"It will if there's enough of it," said Jack.

"Oh, well," said Ned, "if there should happen to be a little lightning left over, that wasn't put out, why, you see, as lightning-rods are generally in good order, it would probably be carried off in the usual manner, without doing any harm."

Jack sat with the paper in his hand, and looked at it in silence, as if he were spell-bound.

"What do you think of it?" said Ned.

"I think it's a work of genius," said Jack.

"I'm glad you think so," said Ned.

"And yet," said Jack, "some things that exhibit great genius, don't work well in practice."

"Certainly!" said Ned. "That was the way with Fay's Underground Railroad."

Jack smiled, and nodded.

"And now," continued Ned, "how would you go to work to introduce it? You wouldn't like to take it and introduce it to the public yourself, would you?—on shares, you know,—you take half of the profits, and we half."

Jack said his business engagements wouldn't permit him to go into it at present.

"Then we must manage it ourselves. Where would you advise us to put it first?"

"On a tall hickory-tree in Burke's woods," said Jack.

"Why so?" said Ned.

"Because the great trouble's going to be with the lightning that's left over. You don't know what that may do."

"I'm afraid the invention doesn't look practical to you," said Ned.

Before Jack could answer, Isaac Holman appeared at the door of the box, with a Latin grammar under his arm. At that time of day, there was an interval of an hour and a half when no train passed, and Isaac had arranged to come and take of Jack a daily lesson in Latin.

"I see it's time for your school to begin; we'll finish talking about this some other day," said Ned, as he hastily thrust the paper into his pocket. For he didn't want Isaac (nor anybody else, I guess) to know about it.

"Don't hurry yourself; I can wait awhile," said Isaac.

"To-morrow will do as well for us," said Ned.

"Totus dexter!—all right!" said Isaac, as we left the box, and made room for him to enter.

Isaac had been studying the language only a fortnight, but was fond of using Latin expressions in talking to the boys. Yet he was very considerate about it, and always gave an immediate translation, as in the sentence just quoted.

As Ned and I walked away, I was the first to speak.

"Ned, I have an idea! That ball of ice would only stay on in winter."

"I suppose so," said Ned, a little gloomily.

"And nearly all the thunder-storms are in summer," said I.

"I'm afraid they are," said Ned. "And this invention isn't worth a cent. It's not any better than Fay's." And he tore up the paper, and threw the pieces into the gutter.

"Then what will you do with the fifteen dollars?" said I, after another pause.

"That's a thing we must think about," said he. "But here comes Jimmy the Rhymer. I wonder if he has anything new to-day."

CHAPTER V.

JIMMY THE RHYMER.

James Redmond, the boys used to say, was small for his size and old for his age. He was not exactly humpbacked, but his shoulders came so nearly up to the level of his ears that he seemed so; and he was not exactly an invalid, though we never counted on him in any of the games or enterprises that required strength or fleetness. I have no idea what his age was. He must have been some years older than I, and yet all the boys in my set treated him tenderly and patronizingly, as if he were a little fellow who needed their encouragement and protection.

Jimmy used to make little ballads, generally taking for his subject some incident that had occurred among the boys of the neighborhood, and often sticking to the facts of the case—at the expense of rhyme and rhythm—with a literalness that made him valuable as a historian, whatever he was as a poet. He was called "Jimmy the Rhymer," and the polite thing to do, on meeting him, was to ask him if he had anything new to-day—meaning any new poem. If he had, he was always willing to read it, sometimes accompanying it with remarks in prose that were quite as entertaining as the ballad itself.

"Hello, Jimmy!"

"Hello, boys!"

"Got anything new to-day?"

"Not much."

"That means that you have something."

"Well, yes; a little one. But I don't think very much of it."

This didn't satisfy us. Jimmy, like many greater artists, was a poor judge of his own productions. Some of his ballads of which he had been proudest were so long and dull that we had almost told him they were failures; but it would have required a very hard-hearted boy to say anything unpleasant to Jimmy. Others, which he thought little of, the boys would call for again and again.

"Let us hear it, please," said Ned.

"I'm afraid I've left it at home," said Jimmy, feeling in his pockets. "Oh, no; here it is."

So we sat down on the horse-block in front of the Quaker meeting-house, and while Ned whittled the edge of the block—which had not been rounded off quite enough, by previous jack-knives, to suit his fancy—Jimmy read his newest ballad.

"It is called 'The Unlucky Fishermen,'" said he; "and you will probably recognize some of the characters.

"What!" said Ned, interrupting, "the little yellow cur that Joe bought of Clam Jimmy for a six-pence?"

"Yes, that's the one."

"But his name isn't Fido—it's Prince. Haven't you ever noticed that the smaller and snarlier and more worthless a dog is, the surer it is to be called Prince?"

"Perhaps that's the way with princes," said Jimmy, who had more than once uttered the most extreme democratic sentiments, expressing contempt for all royalty, merely because it was royalty. "But I don't know,—I never saw one. At any rate, I didn't know the dog's name, and I had to call him something. I think you'll find that everything else is correctly stated."

I ventured to suggest that it didn't make much difference whether the dog's name was right or wrong, in a poem.

"Oh, yes, it does," said Jimmy. "I always try to have my poems true to life; and I shall change that, and make it Prince—that is, after I have inquired of Joe, and found out that the dog's name really is Prince. I am glad you spoke about it."

Then he continued the reading.

"My brother Fay says there isn't a Limerick hook in this whole town," said Ned.

"You can buy plenty of them at Karl's—two for a cent," said Jimmy.

"Oh, no, you can't," said Ned. "Fay says you can't get a Limerick hook this side of New York."

"What is a Limerick hook?" said I, for I was not much of a fisherman.

"Why, don't you know?" said Jimmy. "A hook that's made like a little file on the end where you tie the line, instead of a flat knob."

"A real Limerick hook is one that's made in Limerick," said Ned. "Those you get in this town are made in Connecticut, and are only imitations."

I began to suspect that Ned had been nettled at the failure of his lightning-rod invention, and was venting his spite on poor Jimmy's literary invention.

"I can't see," said I, "that it makes any difference with the poem, whether they were real Limerick hooks, or only imitation. The poetry is just as good."

"Oh, no, it isn't," said Jimmy; "and I'm glad to have my attention called to it. I'll inquire about that, and if I find they were not true Limericks, I'll change that line." Then the reading proceeded.

"Holman's father hasn't been at home for four months," said Ned. "He's gone to Missouri to see about an iron mine."

"I admit," said Jimmy, "that there I drew a little on my imagination. I didn't know what they said, and so I put in what I thought they would be likely to say. But if Holman's father wasn't at home, of course he couldn't have said anything at all. However, I think you'll find that the rest of the poem is entirely true to nature.

"I doubt if any robin sings so late in the season as this," said Ned.

"Still," said Jimmy, "if one did sing, it would certainly be overhead, and not on the ground. No robin ever sings when he's on the ground. You admit that?"

"Oh, certainly," said Ned.

"Then I think that line may stand as it is," said Jimmy.

"He's been anything but a frisky dog when I've seen him," said Ned.

"Perhaps so," said Jimmy; "but there are exceptions to all rules.

"Of course they did," said Ned. "There's not a thing in Karl's store that's not a cheat—all imitation."

"I am glad to hear you say so," said Jimmy. "I thought you would see that the rest of the poem was true to nature.

"Isaac told me," said Jimmy, interrupting himself, "that that thing happened every time with him, and every time but once with Joe."

"He probably said that as an excuse for coming home with no fish," said Ned.

"Oh, no,—Ike wouldn't lie about it," said Jimmy. "He's one of the most truthful boys I ever knew."

"Everybody lies about fishing," said Ned. "It's considered the proper thing to do. That's what they mean by a fish-story."

"But I saw the lines myself," said Jimmy. And then he hurried on with the reading.

"How could he know what kind of fish it was that robbed his hook?" said I.

"I didn't think to ask," said Jimmy. "But, at any rate, he said it was a bass, and Isaac is generally pretty correct.

"That must have been a Dublin boy," said Ned. "Nobody on our side of the river is mean enough to holler 'whip behind!'"

"I think it was a Dublin boy," said Jimmy. "If I can find out for certain, I shall state it so in the poem.

"That's a good poem," said I, as we rose from the horse-block. "I like that."

"Yes," said Ned; "it ought to be printed."

"I'm glad to hear you say so," said Jimmy. "But I think I can improve it in a few spots, if I can get at the facts. At any rate, I shall try."

Jimmy continued his walk up the street, while we sauntered toward home.

"I think you were too severe in your criticisms on the poem," said I. "I'm afraid Jimmy felt hurt."

"Do you think so?" said Ned. "Well, now, I didn't mean to be. I wouldn't hurt that boy's feelings for the world. I suppose I must have been a little cross on account of my lightning-rod. But I shouldn't have played it off on Jimmy, that's a fact."

"I think he has great genius," said I, "and it ought to be encouraged."

"Yes, it ought," said Ned. "I've often thought so, myself, and wished I could do something for him. Perhaps I can, now that I have capital. Father says nothing can be done without capital."

"Jimmy's folks are very poor," said I.

"That's so," said Ned. "I don't suppose his father ever had fifteen dollars at one time in his life. Do you think of any good way in which I could help him with a little capital?"

"I don't know of any way, unless it is to print his poems. I should think if his poems could once be published, he might make a great deal of money out of them, and be able to support himself, and perhaps help his mother a little."

"That's so," said Ned. "I'll publish his poems for him. Come over after supper, and we'll talk it up."

CHAPTER VI.

THE PRICE OF POETRY.

When I went over in the evening, I found that Ned had gone to Jimmy's house, and obtained thirteen of his poems in manuscript, and was now carefully looking them over, correcting what he considered errors.

"I tell you what 'tis," said he, "Jimmy's an awful good poet, but he needs somebody to look out for his facts."

"Do you find many mistakes?" said I.

"Yes; quite a few. Here, for instance, he calls it a mile from the Four Corners to Lyell street. I went with the surveyors when they measured it last summer, and it was just seven eighths of a mile and three rods over."

"But you couldn't very well say 'seven eighths of a mile and three rods over' in poetry," said I.

"Perhaps not," said Ned; "and yet it wont do to have that line stand as it is. It'll be severely criticised by everybody who knows the exact distance."

I felt that Ned was wrong, but I could not tell how or why. In later years I have learned that older people than he confidently criticise what they don't understand, and put their own mechanical patches upon the artistic work of others.

"Perhaps we'd better see what Fay thinks about it," said I. "He probably knows more about poetry than we do."

"He's in the library, getting Father to help him on a hard sum," said Ned. "He'll be here in a minute."

When Phaeton returned, we pointed out the difficulty to him.

"That's all right," said he. "That's poetic license."

"What is poetic license?" said I.

"Poetic license," said Phaeton, "is a way that poets have of making things fit when they don't quite fit."

"Like what?" said Ned.

"Like this," said Phaeton; "this is as good an example as any. You see, he couldn't say 'seven eighths of a mile and three rods over,' because that would be too long."

"That would be the exact distance," said Ned.

"I mean it would make this line too long," said Phaeton; "and, besides, it has to rhyme with that other line, which ends with the word style."

"And if that other line ended with cheek, would he have to call it a league from the Four Corners to Lyell street?" said Ned.

"I suppose so," said Phaeton, "though it wouldn't be a very good rhyme."

"And is that considered all right?"

"I believe it is."

"Then you can't depend upon a single statement in any poem," said Ned.

"Oh, yes, you can," said Phaeton—"a great many."

"Mention one," said Ned.

said Phaeton.

"That's true," said Ned; "but it's only because the words happen to come so. At any rate, you've greatly lessened my respect for poetry, and I don't know whether I'd better publish them, after all."

"These poems?—were you going to publish them?" said Phaeton.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To make a little money for Jimmy. You know his folks are very poor," said Ned.

"The papers wont pay you anything for them," said Phaeton. "Alec Barnes's sister had a poem two columns long in the Vindicator last week, and Alec told me she didn't get a cent for it."

"But we're going to make a book of them," said Ned. "You can make money on a book, can't you?"

"I believe you can," said Phaeton. "Wait a minute."

He went to the library, and came back with three volumes of a cyclopædia, out of which, after looking through several articles, he got, at intervals, these bits of information:

"Moore received three thousand guineas for 'Lalla Rookh.'"

"How much is that?" said Ned.

"Over fifteen thousand dollars," said Phaeton.

"Whew!" said Ned.

"Scott made a profit of ten thousand dollars on 'The Lady of the Lake.'"

"Good gracious!" said Ned.

"Byron received more than seventy-five thousand dollars for his poems."

"Great Cæsar!" said Ned.

"Tupper must have made thirty thousand dollars on his 'Proverbial Philosophy.'"

"That's enough!" said Ned. "That's plenty! I begin to have great respect for poetry, in spite of the license. And I suppose that if the poets make all that money, the publishers make a little something, too."

"They probably know how to look out for themselves," said Phaeton. "But who is going to publish this book for you?"

"I'm going to publish it myself. You know we haven't used up the capital I got from Aunt Mercy," said Ned.

"But you're not a publisher."

"Nobody is a publisher until after he has published something," said Ned.

"But that won't be capital enough to print a book," said Phaeton. "Printing costs like fury."

"Then I shall have to get more from Aunt Mercy."

"Yes, I suppose you can—she'd give you anything; but, the truth is, Ned, I—I had a little plan of my own about that."

"About what?"

"About the fifteen dollars—or a part of it. I don't think I should need all of it."

"What is it? Another foolish invention?"

"Yes, it is a sort of invention; but it is sure to go—sure to go."

"Let's hear all about it," said Ned.

"Will you lend me the money to try it?"

"How much will it take?"

"Six or eight dollars, I should think."

"Yes; I'll lend you six dollars on it. Or, if it is really a good thing, I'll put in the six dollars as my share, and go partnership."

"Well, then, it's a substitute for a balloon," said Phaeton. "Much cheaper, and safer, and better in every way."

"How does it work?" said Ned.

"It makes a horizontal ascension. I could tell you all about it; but I would rather wait a week, and then show you."

"All right!" said Ned. "You can have the money, and we'll wait."

"Thank you!" said Phaeton. "But now tell me how you are going to publish Jimmy's poems."

"Why, just publish them, of course," said Ned.

"And what do you understand by that?"

"Take this copy to the printer, and tell him to print the books. When it's done, load them into big wagons, and drive around to the four book-stores and leave them. After a few days, call around and get the money, and divide with Jimmy. We wouldn't ask them to pay for them till they had a chance to look them over, and see how they liked them."

"I don't believe that would work," said Phaeton.

"Why not?" said Ned.

"The booksellers might not take them."

"Not take them!" said Ned. "They'd be only too glad to. Of course they would make a profit on them. I suppose the price would be—well, about half a dollar; and we should let them have them for—well, say for forty-seven cents apiece. Maybe if they took a large number, and paid cash down, they might have them for forty-five."

Phaeton laughed.

"They don't do business for any such small profits as that," said he.

"I've heard Father tell of a man," said Ned, "that made his fortune when wheat rose three cents on a bushel. And who wouldn't rather have a volume of Jimmy's poems than a bushel of wheat? If nobody happened to buy the wheat for a year or two, it would spoil; but that volume of poems could stand on the shelf in the book-store for twenty years, and be just as good at the end of that time as the day it was put there."

"All that sounds very well," said Phaeton; "but you'd better talk with some one that knows about it, before you rush into the enterprise."

"I'll go and see Jack-in-the-Box, of course," said Ned. "He must know all about books. I never yet asked him anything that he didn't know all about."

Ned could hardly wait for the night to pass away, and when the next day came, off we posted once more to see Jack-in-the-Box. When we got there, Ned plunged at once into the business, before we had fairly said good morning.

"Jack," said he, "did you ever publish a book?"

Jack blushed, and asked why he wanted to know.

"I am thinking of publishing one," said Ned.

"Indeed?" said Jack. "I didn't know that you had written one."

"I haven't," said Ned. "Jimmy the Rhymer wrote it. But I talk of publishing it."

"I see," said Jack. "I didn't understand you before."

"I thought you would understand all about it," said Ned.

"Your expression might have meant either one of two things," said Jack. "When a publisher prints a book and sells it, he of course is said to publish it; and when a person writes a book, and gets a publisher to publish it for him, he also is said to have published a book."

"I see," said Ned. "And did you ever publish one?"

"I never was a publisher," said Jack.

"Still, you may know a good deal about it."

"I know a little about it," said Jack, "and shall be glad to give you all the advice I can. Is this the manuscript?"

Ned said it was, and handed him a roll which he had brought in his hand.

"Ah, poetry, I see," said Jack, turning over the leaves.

"Yes, first-rate poetry," said Ned. "A few licenses here and there; but that can't be helped, you know."

"Of course not," said Jack.

"We want to make as much money as we can," said Ned, "for Jimmy's folks are awful poor, and he needs it, and poetry's the stuff to make money."

"Is it?" said Jack. "I'm glad to hear it."

"There was Sir Walter Tupper," said Ned, "made thirty thousand dollars, clean cash, on a poem called 'The Lady and the Snake'—probably not half so good as these of Jimmy's. Who'd want to read about such a dreadful thing? And Mr. Barrons was paid seventy-five thousand dollars for his poem called 'The Little Rook,' whatever that is. And there was Lord Moore got three thousand guineas—that's fifteen thousand dollars, you know—for some sort of philosophy all turned into rhyme. I don't see how a philosophy could be in rhyme, though, for you know everything in philosophy has to be exact, and in poetry you have to take licenses. Suppose you came to the five mechanical powers, and the line before ended with sticks, what could you do? You'd have to say there were six of them."

Jack laughed heartily.

"Yes, it would be ridiculous," continued Ned. "But that's Lord Moore's lookout. In these poems of Jimmy's, there isn't any trouble of that sort. They don't need to be exact. Suppose, for instance, one of them says it's a mile from the Four Corners to Lyell street. What odds? Very few people know that it's just seven eighths of a mile and three rods over. I might not have known it myself, if I hadn't happened to be with the surveyors when they measured it. Jimmy admits that he has drawn on his imagination in one or two places; but he isn't going to do it any more, and I think those can be fixed up somehow."

Jack laughed again, said he thought imagination was not altogether objectionable in poetry, and kept on turning over the leaves.

"Where is the title-page?" said he.

"What is that?" said Ned.

"The one with the name on it—the first page in the book," said Jack.

"Oh!" said Ned, "we never thought about that. Won't the printer make it himself?"

"Not unless you write it first."

"Then we've got to name the book before we go any further," said Ned.

"That's it, exactly," said Jack.

"Couldn't you name it for us?"

"I might suggest some names," said Jack, "and let you choose; but it seems to me, the person who wrote it ought to name it."

"Oh, never mind Jimmy," said Ned. "He'll be satisfied with anything I do."

"It might be called simply, 'Poems. By Jimmy the Rhymer,'" said Jack.

"His name is James Redmond," said Ned.

"I'll write down a few," said Jack, as he reached into the box under his chair and took out a sheet of paper and a pencil, and in five minutes he showed us the list:

"Rhymes and Roundelays. By James Redmond."

"A Picnic on Parnassus. By James Redmond."

"The Unlucky Fishermen, and other Poems. By James Redmond."

"Jimmy's Jingles."

"Songs of a School-boy."

"Minutes with the Muses. By James Redmond."

It did not take Ned very long to choose the third of these titles, which he thought "sounded the most sensible."

"Very well," said Jack, as he wrote a neat title-page and added it to the manuscript. "And how are you going to publish it?"

"I thought I'd get you to tell me how," said Ned, who by this time had begun to suspect that he knew very little about it.

"The regular way," said Jack, "would be to send it to a firm in New York, or Boston, or Philadelphia."

"And then what?"

"They would have a critic read it and tell them whether it was suitable."

"He'd be sure to say it was; but then what?"

"Then they would have it printed and bound, and advertise it in the papers, and sell it, and send it to other stores to be sold."

"But where would our profits come from?"

"Oh, they would pay you ten per cent. on all they sold."

"And how many do you think they would sell?"

"Nobody can tell," said Jack. "Different books sell differently—all the way from none at all up to a great many."

Ned borrowed Jack's pencil, and figured for two or three minutes.

"Then," said he, "if they should sell a hundred of our book, we would only get five dollars—two and a half for Jimmy, and two and a half for me."

"That's about it," said Jack.

"Then that won't do," said Ned. "Jimmy's folks are very poor, and he needs more than that. Isn't there some way to make more money out of it?"

"Not unless you pay for the printing and binding yourself," said Jack.

"And how much would that cost?"

Jack looked it over and said he guessed about two hundred dollars for an edition of five hundred.

"We can't do it," said Ned, with a sigh. "Aunt Mercy wouldn't give me so much money at a time."

"There is one other way," said Jack.

"How is it?"

"To get up a little printing-office of your own, and print it yourselves."

"That sounds like business; I guess you've hit it," said Ned, brightening up. "How much money would it take for that?"

"I should think twenty-five or thirty dollars would get up a good one."

"Then we can do it," said Ned. "Aunt Mercy will let me have that, right away."

"Do you know anything about printing?" said Jack.

"Not much; but my brother Fay knows all about it. He worked in a printing-office one vacation, to earn money to buy him a chest of tools."

"Indeed! what did your brother do in the printing-office?" said Jack.

"They called him second devil," said Ned, "but he was really a roller-boy."

"They're the same thing," said Jack. "There's no harm in a printer's devil; he's only called so because he sometimes gets pretty well blacked up with the ink."

"I'm glad to hear you say so," said Ned, who had been a little ashamed to tell what Fay did in the office, but now began to think it might be rather honorable. "In fact, he was first devil one week, when the regular first devil was gone to his grandfather's funeral in Troy."

"Then he knows something about the business," said Jack; "and perhaps I can help you a little. I understand the trade to some extent."

"Of course you do," said Ned. "You understand everything. And after we've finished Jimmy's book, we can print all sorts of other things—do a general business, in fact. I'll see what Fay says, and if he'll go in, we'll start it at once."

While Ned was uttering the last sentence, Jack's alarm-clock went off, and Jack took his flag and went out to flag the Pacific express, while we walked away. We must have been very much absorbed in the new project, for we never even turned to look at the train; and a train of cars in swift motion is a sight that few people can help stopping to look at, however busy they may be.

Readers who have followed this story thus far will perhaps inquire where the scene of it is laid. I think it is a pertinent question, yet there is a sort of unwritten law among story-writers against answering it, excepting in some vague, indefinite way; and I have transgressed so many written laws, that I should like at least to keep the unwritten ones. But if you are good at playing "buried cities," I will give you a chance to find out the name of that inland city where Phaeton and his companions dwelt. I discovered it buried, quite unintentionally, in one of Jimmy the Rhymer's poems. Here is the couplet:

CHAPTER VII.

PHAETON'S CHARIOT.

Ned and I pushed on the project for a printing-office with great energy. We made the acquaintance of a man named Alvord, who kept a job office—where they never seemed to be in a hurry, as they always were in the newspaper offices—and was never unwilling to answer questions or sell us old type. It was great fun to explore the mysteries of his establishment. I think he liked boys as much as Jack-in-the-Box did, and I'm sure it was a pleasure to us, in laying out Ned's capital, to pay so much of it to so pleasant a man.

But energy without skill is like zeal without knowledge; in fact, it is about the same thing, and we couldn't really make much progress till Phaeton should take hold; and he would have nothing to do with it till he had finished his apparatus for "a horizontal balloon-ascension," which he was at work upon every minute that he could spare from sleep and meals.

With the help of the carriage-maker and the blacksmith, and Ned's capital—which he drew upon much more freely than had been bargained for—he constructed a low, broad, skeleton-like carriage, the body of which was hung below the axles of the wheels, instead of above them, and almost touched the ground. This was to prevent it from tipping over easily. The front axle turned on a swivel, and was controlled by two stout handles, by means of which the carriage could be steered. On the front of the box were three iron hooks. At the back there was a single hook. The wheels were pretty large, but the whole was made as light as possible.

When it was finished, Phaeton brought it home and put it away carefully in the wood-shed.

"I am afraid," said he, "that somebody will steal this car, or come in and damage it, unless we put a lock on this wood-shed door."

"Who would want to steal it or damage it?" said Ned.

"The Dublin boys," said Phaeton, half under his breath. "Two of them were seen prowling around here the other day."

One section of the town, which was divided from ours by the deep gorge of the river, was popularly known as Dublin, and the boys who lived there, though probably very much like other boys, were always considered by us as our natural enemies—plotters against the peace of boy society, capable of the most treacherous designs and the darkest deeds ever perpetrated in the juvenile world. Every piece of mischief not obviously to be accounted for in any other way, was laid to the Dublin boys as a matter of course.

"But we haven't any padlock," said Ned, "except that old brass one, and the key of that is lost, and we couldn't turn it when we had it."

"I suppose we shall have to buy a new one," said Phaeton.

"All right—buy one," said Ned.

"I haven't any money," said Phaeton.

"Nor I," said Ned—"spent the last cent for a beautiful little font of Tuscan type; weighed just five pounds, fifteen cents a pound—nothing the matter with it, only the Es are gone."

"The Es are gone?" said Phaeton. "Do you mean to say that you have been buying a font of type with no Es in it?"

"Yes; why? What's the harm in that?" said Ned. "You don't expect everything to be perfect when you buy things second-hand."

"Of course not," said Phaeton; "but what can you do without Es? If the Qs or the Xs were gone, it wouldn't so much matter; but there's hardly a word that hasn't at least one E in it. Just count the Es on a page of any book. And you've been fooling away your money on a font of type with no Es! Mr. Alvord ought to be ashamed of himself to cheat a boy like that."

"You needn't be scolding me for fooling away the money," said Ned. "What have you been doing, I should like to know? Fooling away the money on that old torrid-zontal balloon thing, which will probably make a shipwreck of you the first time you try it. And, besides, I didn't buy the type of Mr. Alvord."

"Where did you get it?"

"Bought it of a boy that I met on the stairs when I was coming down from Alvord's."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know. He lives on one of those cross-streets down by the aqueduct. I went to his house with him to get the type. He said he used to have a little office, but his father wouldn't let him keep it any more, just because the baby ate some of the ink."

"It's too bad," said Phaeton; "the type will never be of any use. What do you suppose could have become of the Es?"

"I don't know," said Ned, a little morosely, "unless the baby sister ate them too."

"They'd set rather heavy on her stomach," said Phaeton. "But how are we going to get a lock for this door?"

"I don't see that we can get one at all," said Ned.

I suggested that the door of the wood-shed might be nailed up, to keep out the Dublin boys, till we had a chance to get a padlock.

"That's a first-rate idea," said Phaeton, and he at once brought out the hammer and nail-box, and began to nail up the door. It was a heavy, panelled door, which had evidently come from some old mansion that was torn down.

"It's as well to make it strong while we're about it," said he; "for if those fellows should come, they'd pry it open if they could," and he put in a few more nails.

"Father showed me how to drive nails so as to make them hold," said I. "Let me show you;" and taking the hammer from his hand, I drove eight or ten more nails into the door, driving them in pairs, each pair slanting in opposite directions.

"That's a thing worth knowing," said Ned. "Let me practice on it a little."

He took the hammer, and drove one or two pairs in the manner I had shown him, and was so pleased with his success, that he kept on till he had used up all the nails in the box.

"No Dublin boy is going to get that car this night," said he, as he gave a final blow to the last nail.

"No," said Phaeton; "I think that's pretty safe."

As it began to rain, I was obliged to hurry home. That night, as I afterward learned, there was sorrow in the breast of the youngest member of the Rogers family. Little May Rogers, who never went to sleep without her favorite cat, Jemima, curled up on the foot of her little bed, couldn't go to sleep because Jemima was nowhere to be found in the house, and had not come when every outside door in turn was opened, and she was called from the vasty darkness. Even when Mrs. Rogers stood in the kitchen-door and rasped the carving-knife on the steel, Jemima failed to come bounding in. That was considered decisive as to her fate. The cat would be sure to come at that sound, if she were able to come at all.

But a much more serious commotion shook the family next morning. When Mr. Rogers went down to his breakfast, it was not ready; in fact, the kitchen fire was not made.

"How is this, Biddy?" said he to the cook.

"Sure, I couldn't help it, sir; I could get no kindlings."

"Why so, Biddy?"

"Because, sir, the wood-shed door's bewitched. I couldn't get it open. And everything outside is soakin' wet wid the rain, and so of course I couldn't kindle the fire."

Mr. Rogers walked out to the wood-shed door, and attempted to open it with an impatient and vigorous jerk, but the handle came off in his hand. Then he tried to get hold of it by the edge, but there wasn't a crack where he could insert his fingers. Then he took hold of it at the bottom, where there was considerable space, but it would not budge a hair. He was becoming a little excited, for he had an engagement to leave town by the early train. He went into the house for some sort of tool, and brought out the poker. Cutting a little hole with his pocket-knife at the edge of the door, he inserted the poker, and pried; but the poker bent double, and the door did not stir. Then he went in again, and brought out the stove-wrench. Cutting the hole a little larger, he pried at the door with the wrench; but the wrench was of cast-iron, and snapped in two.

"Biddy," said he, "I see a light at Robbins's,"—it was very early in the morning—"go over and borrow an axe."

Biddy soon returned with an axe, and Mr. Rogers tried to pry the door open with that, but only succeeded in breaking splinters from the edge.

"Biddy," said he, "bring a light, and let's see what ails it."

Biddy brought out a candle, but trembled so at the idea of letting out the witches, that she dropped it at Mr. Rogers's feet, and it struck on its lighted end and immediately went out.

Biddy made rapid apologies, and ran in for another candle. But Mr. Rogers would wait no longer. He raised the axe in fury, and began to slaughter the door, like a mediæval soldier before the gate of a besieged castle.

Slice after slice was torn off and flew inward, striking the opposite side of the shed; but the door as a whole would not fall. When a considerable hole had been made, a frightened cat, its eyes gleaming wildly, and its tail as large as a feather-duster, leaped out from the inner darkness, passing over Mr. Rogers's head, and knocking his hat off, landed somewhere in the yard, and immediately made for the woods. Biddy, who arrived on the ground with the second candle just in time to witness this performance, dropped the light again, and fled screaming into the house.

This aroused two neighbors, who threw up their windows, thrust their heads out, and, hearing the powerful blows of the axe, thought a maniac was abroad, and hallooed for the police.

The watchman on that beat, ever on the alert, waited only eight or nine minutes, till he could call four others to his aid, when all five of them started for the scene of the trouble. Separating after they had entered Mr. Rogers's gate, they made a little circuit through the yard, and cautiously approached him, two on each side, and one behind. As the one behind laid his hand on his shoulder, Mr. Rogers dropped the axe, whirled around, and "hauled off," as the boys say, but caught the gleam of the silver star on the policeman's breast, and dropped his fist.

"What do you want?" said he.

"If it's you, we don't want anything," said the policeman, who, of course, knew Mr. Rogers very well. "But we thought we wanted a crazy man."

"Then you might as well take me," said Mr. Rogers, "for I am pretty nearly crazy. The mischief has got into this door, so that it couldn't be opened, and the cook had no kindlings and I no breakfast; and I shall lose the early train, and if I don't reach Albany to-day, I can't tell how many dollars it will cost me, but a good many."

Mr. Rogers drew out his handkerchief, and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

One of the policemen produced a bull's-eye lantern, and examined the ruined door, passing it up and down the edge where the outer frame, studded with many nails, still clung tightly to the jambs, all the central portion having been cut away in ragged slices.

"This door has been nailed up with a great many nails," said he.

"I can't imagine who would do that," said Mr. Rogers; "this isn't the first day of April."

Neither could the policemen. In fact, I have observed that policemen have very little imagination. In this instance, five of them, all imagining at once, could not imagine who nailed up that door. The nearest they could come to it was, that it was probably done with a heavy, blunt instrument, in the hands of some person or persons unknown.

When, later in the day, we boys stood contemplating what Ned called the "shipwreck of the door"—older people than he call all sorts of wrecks shipwrecks—he remarked that he didn't know what his father would say, if he should find out who did it.

Mr. Rogers had taken the next train for Albany.

"He will find out," said Phaeton; "for I shall tell him as soon as he gets home."

The day that his father returned, Phaeton told, at the tea-table, the whole story of how the door was bewitched. A week had then passed, and—such are the soothing influences of time—Mr. Rogers laughed heartily at the whole affair, and at his own excitement most of all.

"I had no idea," said Ned, solemnly, "that so much trouble could be caused by a few nails."

His mother thought "few" was good.

The next day I heard little May Rogers telling another child about it. This was her story:

"You see, brother Fay and brother Neddie, they drived a nail in the wood-shed door; and Biddy, she lended Mr. Robbins's axe; and then Papa, he got besited; and so we haven't any wood-shed door any more."

Meanwhile, the preparations for the horizontal balloon ascension had gone on. But, as Ned remarked long ago, nothing could be done without capital, and he was obliged to make another business call upon his Aunt Mercy.

"What's new down at your house?" said she, after the greetings were over.

"Nothing particular," said Ned.

"I hear that idiotic brother of yours has been cutting up a pretty caper," said Aunt Mercy, after a pause.

"What was it?" said Ned.

"Why, don't you know?"

"I don't know what you have been told, and I can't think of anything very bad that Fay has done."

"Gracious me!" said Aunt Mercy. "Don't you call it bad to go around slyly in the night and nail up every door and window in the house?"

"Yes, that would be pretty bad, Aunty. But Fay hasn't done so."

"You admit that it was bad, then?"

"Why, certainly—but it isn't true. Only one door was nailed up—the wood-shed door."

"I do believe you're standing up for him. But I tell you, a boy that would nail up one door would nail up a hundred."

"He might if he had nails enough," said Ned, in a low voice.

"That's just it," said Aunt Mercy. "That fellow would nail up just as many doors as he could get nails for. I've no doubt it was only the givin' out of the nails that prevented him from going through every house in the neighborhood. Mark my words, he'll come to some bad end. Don't you have anything to do with him, Edmund Burton."

Ned said he thought it would be rather hard not to have anything to do with his own brother.

"Yes, I suppose so," said Aunt Mercy. "But do the best you can."

"Yes, Aunty, I'll do my best."

"Now tell me," said she, "about your muddle. Have you made a muddle yet?"

I thought Ned might have answered conscientiously that he had made a muddle. But he said:

"No, Aunty, we've put that off for a while. We think it will be best to do some other things first."

"What are the other things?"

"One of them is a printing-office. We think of setting up a little printing-office to print little books and papers and cards and things, if we can get together enough money for it. It takes rather more capital than we have at present."

I suppose Aunt Mercy thought I was the other one besides himself included in Ned's "we."

"I should have supposed," said she, "that it was best to finish one muddle before going into another. But you know best, Edmund Burton. I have great confidence in your judgment." And she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, and seemed to be dreaming for some minutes. I doubt if she more than half knew which Edmund Burton she was talking to—the one who had long since gone down beneath the waters of a distant sea, or the young scapegrace who, without intending to represent anything falsely, had got so much money from her on false representations.

"I don't know how it is," said he to me one day. "I never intend to cheat Aunt Mercy; and yet, whenever I go to see her, things seem to fix themselves somehow so that she misunderstands. I guess it's her imagination."

"How much money do you need for your new muddle?" said she, when she came out of her reverie.

"Jack-in-the-Box says he thinks twenty-five or thirty dollars would fit up a good one," said Ned.

"Who is Jack-in-the-Box?"

"A gentleman connected with the railroad."

"Queer name for a railroad director," said Aunt Mercy. "But I suppose you've blundered on it. French, very likely. Might be Jacquin Thibaux. (I studied French two terms at Madam Farron's.) Some of those old Huguenot names have got into strange shapes. But it doesn't matter. I dare say Monsieur Thibaux is right about it. I haven't any money with me to-night, but I'll send it over to you to-morrow. Don't let that ignorant brother of yours meddle with your printing-office; he'll misspell every word, and disgrace the family."

"I'll try to keep him straight," said Ned. "Good-night, Aunty."

"Good-night, Edmund Burton, my dear boy."

"I thought part of this capital," said I to Ned, as we walked away, "was for the horizontal balloon."

"So it is," said he; "but I couldn't explain that to Aunt Mercy, because Fay has never explained it to me. I have no idea how he's going to make that queer thing go."

When Phaeton was furnished with a little more money, we soon saw how the thing was to go. He built three enormous kites, six feet high. They were not bow-kites—the traditional kite always represented in pictures, but seldom used in our country. They were the far more powerful six-cornered kite, familiar to the boys of the Middle States. He certainly built them with great skill, and Ned and I had the pleasure of helping him—if holding the paste-cup and hunting for material to make the tails was helping.

As each was finished, Phaeton carefully stood it up in the wood-shed to dry, where there was no more danger of Dublin boys; for Mr. Rogers had sent a carpenter to put on a new door and furnish it with a lock. Nevertheless, Phaeton took the first kite to his room for the night, and put it against the wall behind the bed. But Ned, who tossed a great deal, managed to kick a hole through it in his sleep. After that, they were left in the wood-shed over night, where a similar misfortune befell the second. Biddy, breaking kindlings in an unscientific way with the hatchet, sent a piece of wood flying through the kite, tearing a large hole on what a sailor would call the starboard quarter.

When Phaeton complained of her carelessness, she seemed to think she had improved the kite, saying: "The two kites were not comrades before—but they are now."

When an enterprising boy attempts to carry out some little project of his own, it is astonishing to see how even the best natured household will seem to conspire against him. If he happens to leave a few of his things on the dining-room floor, they are carelessly stepped upon by his own mother, or swept out-of-doors by an ignorant servant. I have seen a boy trying to make a galvanic battery, and his sister looking on and fervently hoping it would fail, so that she could have the glass cups to put into her play-house.

However, Phaeton had about as little of this sort of thing to endure as any boy ever had. When the kites were finished and dry, and the holes patched up, and the tails hung, Phaeton said he was ready to harness up his team as soon as the wind was right.

"Which way do you want it?" said I.

"It must be a steady breeze, straight down the turnpike," said he.

One reason why Phaeton chose this road was, that here he would encounter no telegraph wires. At the railway crossing, two men, riding on loads of hay, had come in contact with the wires and been seriously hurt. Another repetition of the accident might have been prevented by raising the wires on higher poles, but the company had chosen rather to run them down the pole on one side, under the street, and up the next pole.

"But I don't see how these kites are going to work," said Ned, "if you fly them side by side, and hitch the strings to those three hooks."

"Why not?"

"Because they'll interfere with each other, and get all tangled up."

"You would think so," said Phaeton, "if you haven't made a study of kite-flying, as I have. If you look at a dozen boys flying their kites at once on the common, you will see that, no matter how near together two or three boys stand, their kites will not go in exactly the same direction. Either the strings will slant away from each other a little, or else they will cross."

"How do you account for that?" said Ned.

"I suppose it's because you never can make two kites exactly alike; or, if they are exactly alike, they are not hung precisely the same; and so the wind bears a little more on the left side of one, and a little more on the right side of the other."

"I guess that's so," said Ned. "And yet it seems to me it would be better to fly them tandem."

"How would you get them up?" said I.

"First get up one," said Ned. "And when it was well up, fasten the end of the string to the back of the next kite, and let that up, and do the same with the third. Then you would have a straight pull by the whole team in line."

"And the pull of all three kites would come on the last string, and probably break it," said Phaeton.

"I didn't think of that," said Ned. "I see your way is the best, after all. But hurry up and have it over with, for we want you to help us about the printing-office; we can't get along without you."

"It never will be 'over with,'" said Phaeton. "I shall ride out every fine day, when the wind is in the right direction."

"Why, is that all it's for?" said Ned—"merely your own amusement?"

"Not at all," said Phaeton. "It is a great invention, to be introduced all over the country. Better than a locomotive, because it will run on a common road. Better than horses, because it doesn't eat anything. But then, I'm going to enjoy it myself as much as I can. However, we'll find time for the printing."

CHAPTER VIII.

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.

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.

CHAPTER IX.

THE ART DESERVATIVE.

When Phaeton's kites went wobbling down the sky, Owney Geoghegan and three or four others of the Dublin boys who had escaped their mothers, started off on a chase for them. Phaeton, Ned, Holman, and I took the car up the bank, and when we arrived at the top we saw Monkey Roe walking away pretty rapidly.

"Gravitas pro vehiculum!—wait for the wagon!" shouted Holman to him.

Roe seemed a little uncertain whether to stop, but finally leaned against the fence and waited for us.

I observed that the drove of cattle had gone down to a shallow place in the canal on the other side of the bridge, and were most of them standing in the water, either drinking or contemplating. Their drivers were throwing stones at them, and saying uncomplimentary things, but they took it philosophically—which means they didn't mind it much. When you are stolidly indifferent to anything that ought to move you, your friends will say you take it philosophically.

"Wasn't it an odd thing, Roe," said Holman, "that all those Dublin boys should have got the idea that a prize was offered for anybody who could beat this machine?"

"Yes, it was very odd," said Roe. "Fay, what sort of wood is this?"

"Chestnut."

"But I say, Roe," continued Holman, "who in the world could have told them so?"

"Probably somebody who was fond of a practical joke," said Roe. "Who did the blacksmith work for you, Fay?"

"Fanning."

"And I suppose," persisted Holman, still talking to Roe, "that it must have been the same practical joker who sent their mothers after them."

"Very likely," said Roe. "Are you going to get the kites and harness her up again, Fay?"

"Haven't made up my mind."

It was evident that Monkey Roe didn't want to talk about the mystery of the Dublin boys, and Holman—probably satisfied by this time that his suspicions were correct—himself changed the subject.

"When I saw this thing tearing down the turnpike," said he, "with all that rabble at its heels, and go splash into the canal, I was reminded of the story of Phaeton, which I had for my Latin lesson last week."

Of course, we asked him to tell the story.

"Phaeton," said Holman, "was a young scapegrace who was fond of fast horses, and thought there was nothing on four legs or any number of wheels that he couldn't drive. His father was the Sun-god Helios—which is probably a corruption of 'Held a hoss' (I must ask Jack-in-the-Box about it)—and his mother's maiden name was Clymene—which you can easily see is only changed a little from 'climb-iny.' This shows how Phaeton came by his passion for climbing in the chariot and holding the hosses.

"One day, one of the boys, named Epaphus, tried to pick a quarrel with him by saying that he was not really a son of Helios, but was only adopted out of the poor-house. Phaeton felt pretty badly about it, for he didn't know but it might be true. So he went home as fast as he could, and asked Helios, right out plump, whether he was his own son, or only adopted out of the poor-house. 'Certainly,' said the old gentleman, 'you are my own son, and always have been, ever since you were born.'

"This satisfied Phaeton, but he was afraid it might not satisfy the boys who had heard Epaphus's remark. So he begged to be allowed to drive the chariot of the Sun one day, just to show people that he was his father's own boy. Helios shook his head. That was a very particular job; the chariot had to go out on time and come in on time, every day, and there couldn't be any fooling about it. But the youngster hung on and teased so, that at last his father told him he might drive just one day, if he would never ask again."

"Did he have a gag-bit?" said Ned, remembering his brother's remarks on the occasion of our brisk morning canter.

"Probably not," said Holman, "for gag-bits were not then invented. The next morning old Helios gave the boy all the instructions he could about the character of the horses and the bad places in the road, and started him off.

"He hadn't gone very far when the team ran away with him, and went banging along at a terrible rate, knocking fixed stars out of their places, overturning and scattering an immense pile of new ones that had been corded up at the side of the road to dry (that's what makes the Milky Way), and at last setting the world on fire.

"Jupiter saw that something must be done, pretty quick, too, so he threw a sand-bag, or a thunder-bolt, or something of that sort, at him, and knocked over the chariot, and the next minute it went plump into the river Eridanus—which I've no doubt is the Latin for Erie Canal. You can easily see how it would come: Erie canal—Erie ditch—Erie drain—Erie drainus—Eridanus. That's the way Professor Woodruff explains words to the advanced class. He can tell you where any word came from in two minutes.

"Phaeton wasn't so lucky as you, Fay, for there was no Patsy Rafferty to pull him out, and he was drowned, while his poor sisters stood on the tow-path and cried till they turned into poplar-trees."

We were all deeply interested in this remarkable story from Grecian mythology, told in good plain American, and from our report Holman was often called upon to repeat it to the other boys. It was this that gave Fayette Rogers the name of Phaeton.

The fate of the horizontal balloon for a time dampened Phaeton's ardor for invention, and he was willing at last to unite with Ned and me in an enterprise which promised to be more business-like than brilliant—the printing-office scheme.

Meanwhile, we had been doing what we could ourselves. The first necessity was a press. Ned, whom we considered a pretty good draughtsman, drew a plan for one, and he and I made it. There was nothing wrong about the plan; it was strong and simple—two great virtues in any machine. But we constructed the whole thing of soft pine, the only wood that we could command, or that our tools would cut. Consequently, when we put on the pressure to print our first sheet—feeling as proud as if we were Faust, Gutenberg, Schöfer, the Elzevirs, Ben Franklin, and the whole Manutius family rolled into one—not only did the face of the types go into the paper, but the bottoms of them went right into the bed of the press.

"It acts more like a pile-driver than a printing-press," said Ned, ruefully.

"It'll never do," said I. "We can't get along without Fay. When he makes a press, it will print."

"When Fay makes a press," said Ned, "he'll probably hire somebody else to make it. But I guess that's the sensible way. I suppose the boys would laugh at this thing, even if it worked well; it looks so dreadfully cheese-pressy."

"It does look a little that way," said I. "But Fay will get up something handsome, and I've no doubt we can find some good use for this—perhaps keep it in the corner for the boys to fool with when they call. They'll be certain to meddle with something, and this may keep their hands from the good one."

"I don't intend to run the office on any such principles," said Ned. "The boy that meddles with anything will be invited to leave."

"Then you'll make them all angry, and there won't be any good-will to it," said I. "I've heard Father say that the good-will of the Vindicator office was worth more than all the type and presses. He says the Vindicator lives on its good-will."

"That may be all very nice for the Vindicator," said Ned; "but this office will have to live on hard work."

"But we must be polite to the boys that patronize the establishment," said I.

"Oh, yes; be polite to them, of course," said Ned. "But tell them they've got to keep out of our way when the press is running."

Whether the press ever would have run, or even crawled, without Phaeton to manage it, is doubtful. But he now joined in the enterprise, and very soon organized the concern. As Ned had predicted, he hired a man who was a carriage-maker by trade, but had a genius for odd jobs, to make us a press. In those days, the small iron presses which are now manufactured in great numbers, and sold to boys throughout the country, had not been heard of. Ours was a pretty good one, made partly of wood and partly of iron, with a powerful knee-joint, which gave a good impression. The money to pay for it came from Aunt Mercy via Ned.

There was a small, unused building in our yard, about fifteen feet square, sometimes called the "wash-house," and sometimes "the summer-kitchen," now abandoned and almost empty. Phaeton, looking about for a place for the proposed printing-office, fixed upon this as the very thing that was wanted. He said it could not have been better if it had been built on purpose.

After some negotiation with my parents, their consent was obtained, and Phaeton and Ned took me into partnership, I furnishing the building, and they furnishing the press and type. We agreed that the name of the firm should be Rogers & Co. On the gable of the office we erected a short flag-staff, cut to the form of a printer's "shooting-stick," and whenever the boys saw the Stars and Stripes floating from it, they knew the office was open for business.

"This font of Tuscan," said Ned to Phaeton, as we were putting the office in order, "is not going to be so useless as you suppose, even if the Es are all gone."

"How so?" said Phaeton.

"Because I asked a printer about it, and he says when you find a box empty you simply use some other letter in place of the one that is missing—generally X. And here are plenty of Xs."

Phaeton only smiled, and went on distributing type into his case of pica.

"I say, Fay," said Ned again, after awhile, "don't you think it would be proper to do a little something for Patsy Rafferty, just to show your gratitude for his services in pulling you out of the canal?"

"I've thought about it," said Phaeton.

"We might print him a dozen cards, with his name on," said Ned, "and not charge him a cent. Get them up real stylish—red ink, perhaps; or Patsy in black and Rafferty in red; something that'll please him." And Ned immediately set up the name in Tuscan, to see how it would look. It looked like this:

"How do you think he'd like that, done in two colors?" said Ned.

"I don't believe he'd care much about it," said Phaeton. "But I've invited him to come over here this afternoon, and perhaps we can find out what he would like."

Patsy came in the afternoon, and was made acquainted with some of the mysteries of printing. After a while, Ned showed him what he intended to print on a dozen cards for him.

"It's very nice, indeed," said Patsy; "but that's not my name."

"Not your name?" said Ned.

"No," said Patsy. "My father's name is Mr. Patsy Rafferty, Esquire; but I'm only Patsy Rafferty, without any handle or tail to it."

"If that's all that ails it," said Ned, "it's easy enough to take off the handle and tail," and he took them off.

Patsy took another look at it.

"That's not exactly the way I spell my name," said he. "There ought to be an E there, instead of an X."

"Of course there ought," said Ned, "but you see we haven't any Es in that style of type, and it's an old established rule in all printing-offices that when there's a letter you haven't got, you simply put an X in place of it. Everybody understands it."

"I didn't understand it," said Patsy, "and I think my name looks better when it's spelled the way I was christened."

"All right!" said Ned. "We'll make it as you want it; but it'll have to be set in some other kind of type, and that Tuscan is the prettiest thing in the office."

Patsy still preferred correctness to beauty, and had his way.

"And now what color will you have?" said Ned. "We can print it in black, or red, or blue, or partly one color and partly another—almost any color, in fact."