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Phaeton Rogers: A Novel of Boy Life

by Rossiter Johnson · English · Gutenberg #48313 · 410,258 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Phaeton Rogers: A Novel of Boy Life

Author: Rossiter Johnson


        
Release date: February 19, 2015 [eBook #48313]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48313

Credits: Produced by Ron Swanson


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHAETON ROGERS: A NOVEL OF BOY LIFE ***

[Frontispiece: AT WORK IN THE PRINTING-OFFICE.]




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.


CHAPTER I.
  A Morning Canter

CHAPTER II.
  Rapid Transit

CHAPTER III.
  Aunt Mercy

CHAPTER IV.
  Jack-in-the-Box

CHAPTER V.
  Jimmy the Rhymer

CHAPTER VI.
  The Price of Poetry

CHAPTER VII.
  Phaeton's Chariot

CHAPTER VIII.
  A Horizontal Balloon-Ascension

CHAPTER IX.
  The Art Deservative

CHAPTER X.
  Torments of Typography

CHAPTER XI.
  A Comical Comet

CHAPTER XII.
  A Literary Mystery

CHAPTER XIII.
  A Lyric Strain

CHAPTER XIV.
  An Alarm of Fire

CHAPTER XV.
  Running with the Machine

CHAPTER XVI.
  A New Fire-Extinguisher

CHAPTER XVII.
  How a Church Flew a Kite

CHAPTER XVIII.
  An Extra Fourth-of-July

CHAPTER XIX.
  A Conquest

CHAPTER XX.
  Rings, Scissors, and Boots

CHAPTER XXI.
  A Tea-Party

CHAPTER XXII.
  Old Shoes and Orange-Blossoms




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:

[Illustration: RAPID TRANSIT BY CABLE.]

"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.

[Illustration: RAPID TRANSIT BY CAR.]

"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."

[Illustration: THE BOYS CONSULT JACK-IN-THE-BOX.]

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.

[Illustration: NED'S INVENTION.]

"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.

  "Joe Chase and Isaac Holman,
     They would a-fishing go;
   They rose at sunrise Friday morn,
     And called their dog Fido."

"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.

  "In two small willow baskets--
     One white, the other brown--
   Their mothers put the dinners up
     Which they were to put down.

  "They'd dug their bait the night before,--
     The worms were live and thick;
   Their bamboo poles were long and strong,
     Their hooks were Limerick."

"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.

  "'Now let us make it doubly sure
     That nothing's left,' said Joe.
   And '_Totus dexter!_' Ike replied--
     Which means 'All right!' you know.

  "These jolly boys set off at once
     When everything was found;
   Their fathers said, 'We wish good luck!'
     Their mothers, 'Don't get drowned!'"

"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.

  "When they unto the river came,
     Where they should cast the lead,
   The dew still glistened under foot,
     The robin sang o'erhead."

"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.

  "All down the road and through the woods
     They had a lovely walk;
   The dog did frisk, and chase the birds,
     And they did laugh and talk."

"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.

  "But here their luck all left them--
     The case seemed very sad:
   For everything was good before--
     Now everything was bad.

  "Their sinkers were not large enough,
     The current was so strong,
   And so they tied on pebble-stones,
     To help the thing along.

  "And bitterly they did regret
     They bought their lines at Karl's;
   For every time they hauled them out,
     They found them full of snarls."

"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.

  "When little fish got on the hooks,
     They soon flopped off again;
   When big ones bit, they gave a jerk,
     And snapped the line in twain."

"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.

  "The dog lay by the dinners,
     And was told to guard them well--
   To let no stranger, man or beast,
     Come near, touch, taste, or smell.

  "But Fido--of course I mean Prince--fell asleep, and kicked
     The baskets in a dream;
   The contents tumbled o'er the bank,
     And floated down the stream.

  "And once a bass robbed Isaac's hook,
     Just as he tried to haul;
   Which made him nervous, and in haste
     He let the bait-box fall."

"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.

  "It fell between two rugged rocks,
     Where out of reach it lay;
   And when with sticks they fished it up,
     The worms had crawled away.

  "Now when the golden setting sun
     Was shining down the glen,
   They sadly turned their steps toward home,
     These luckless fishermen.

  "And when they came upon the road,
     All tired in foot and side,
   They said, 'Let's hide our poles away,
     And try to catch a ride.'

  "They caught upon an omnibus--
     They did not stir or talk;
   But some one cried out, 'Whip behind!'
     And so they had to walk."

"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.

  "They came up slowly from the gate,
     And Fido--that is to say, Prince--walked behind;
   Their parents sat about the door,
     Or on the grass reclined.

  "Their fathers said--at least Joe's father did--'It grieves us much
     That you no luck have found.'
   Their mothers said, 'Our precious boys,
     We're glad you are not drowned.'"

"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 won't 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.

  "'Thirty days hath September,
    April, June, and November,'"

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 won't 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:

  "Though his head to the north wind so often is bared,
   At the sound of the siroc he's terribly scared."




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.

[Illustration: "THE WHOLE CARAVAN WENT ROARING DOWN THE TURNPIKE."]

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.

[Illustration: NED'S PLAN FOR A 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:

  MR. PATSY RAFFXRTY, XSQ.

"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."

Patsy, true to the tradition of his ancestors, chose green.

"I'm awful sorry," said Ned, "but we haven't any green ink. It's about
the only color we haven't got."

"You can make it by mixing blue and yellow together," said Patsy.

"True," said Ned; "but the fact is, we haven't any yellow. Green and
yellow are about the only colors we haven't got."

After studying the problem a few minutes, Patsy chose to have his
visiting-cards printed in alternate red and blue letters, and we set
about it at once, Ned arranging the type, while I took the part of
devil and managed the ink. As they were to be in two colors, of course
each card had to go through the press twice; and they were not very
accurately "registered," as a printer would say--that is, the red
letters, instead of coming exactly on even spaces between the blue,
would sometimes be too far one way, sometimes too far the other,
sometimes even lapping over the blue letters. But out of fifty or sixty
that we printed, Patsy selected thirteen that he thought would do--"a
dozen, and one for luck"--and, without waiting for them to dry, packed
them together and put them into his pocket, expressing his own
admiration and anticipating his mother's. He even intimated that when
she saw those she would probably order some for herself.

Patsy asked about Phaeton's chariot, and whether it was hurt much when
it went into the canal.

"Hardly damaged at all," said Phaeton.

Patsy hinted that he would like to see it, and he and Phaeton went over
to Rogers's. When Phaeton returned an hour later, he was alone.

"Where's Patsy?" said Ned.

"Gone home with the chariot," said Phaeton.

"Gone home with the chariot?" said Ned, in astonishment.

"Yes," said Phaeton, "I have given it to him. I saw, by the way he
looked at it and talked about it, that it would be a great prize to
him, and I didn't intend to use it any more myself, so I made him a
present of it."

"But you had no right to," said Ned. "That chariot was built with my
money."

"Not exactly," said Phaeton. "It was built with money that I borrowed
of you. I still owe you the money, but the car was mine."

"Well, at any rate," said Ned, who saw this point clearly enough, "you
might have sold the iron on it for enough to buy another font of type."

"Yes, I might," said Phaeton. "But I preferred giving it to Patsy. He's
a good deal of a boy, and I hope Father won't forget that he said he
should do something for him."

"But what use will the car be to him?" said Ned.

"He says it'll be a glorious thing to slide down hill in summer," said
Phaeton.

A few days afterward, Patsy came again to see Phaeton, and wanted to
know if he could not invent some means by which the car could be
prevented from going down hill too fast. He said that when Berny Rourke
and Lukey Finnerty and he took their first ride in it, down one of the
long, grassy slopes that bordered the Deep Hollow, it went swifter, and
swifter, until it reached the edge of the brook, where it struck a lump
of sod and threw them all into the water.

"Water is an excellent thing," said Ned, "for a sudden stoppage of a
swift ride. They always use it in horizontal balloon-ascensions, and on
the Underground Railroad they're going to build all the depots of it."

Phaeton, who appeared to be thinking deeply, only smiled, and said
nothing. At last he exclaimed:

"I have it, Patsy! Come with me."

They went off together, and Phaeton hunted up an old boot, the leg of
which he drove full of shingle-nails, driving them from the inside
outward. Then he filled it with stones and sand, and sewed the top
together. Then he found a piece of rope, and tied one end to the
straps.

"There, Patsy," said he, "tie the other end of the rope to one of the
hooks on the car, and take the boot in with you. When you are going
fast enough, throw it out for a drag. I don't believe a streak of
lightning could make very good headway, if it had to pull that thing
along on the ground after it."

Patsy, Berny, and Lukey tried it, but were thrown into the brook as
before. Phaeton said the true remedy was, more old boots; and they
added one after another, till they had a cluster of seven, which acted
as an effectual drag, and completely tamed the spirit of the machine,
after which it soon became the most popular institution in Dublin.
Patsy said seven was one of the lucky numbers.

To return to the printing business. When I was about to sit down at the
tea-table, that evening, Mother exclaimed:

"What in the world ails your hands?"

I looked at them. Some of my fingers were more red than blue, some were
more blue than red, and some about equally red and blue. I said I
guessed Patsy Rafferty's visiting-cards were what ailed my hands.

"Well, I wish you'd wash your hands of Patsy Rafferty's
visiting-cards," said she.

"Can't do it with any such slimpsy water as we have here," said I.

"And where do they have any that is less slimpsy?" said Mother.

"At the printing-offices," said I. "They put a little ley in it. We
haven't any at our office, but that's the next thing we're going to
buy. Don't worry; it won't rub off on the bread and butter, and we
shall have a can of ley next week."

"The next thing to be done," said Ned, when we had the office fairly in
running order, "is to get up a first-rate business-card of our own,
have it large enough, print it in colors, and make a stunning thing of
it."

"That reminds me," said Phaeton, "that I was talking with
Jack-in-the-Box about our office the other day, and I told him we ought
to have a pretty poetical motto to put up over the door. He suggested
two or three, and wrote them down for me. Perhaps one of them would
look well on the card."

"What are they?" said Ned.

After some searching, Phaeton found a crumpled piece of paper in one of
his pockets, and smoothing it out showed the following, hastily
scratched in pencil:

  Faith, he'll prent it.--_Burns_.

  I have misused the king's press.--_Shakespeare_.

  So careful of the type she seems.--_Tennyson_.

"I don't like one of them," said Ned.

"Why not?" said Phaeton.

"Well, the first one is spelled wrong. We _print_ here, we don't
_prent_."

"But it means the same thing," said Phaeton; "that's the Scotch of it.
Burns was a Scotchman."

"Was he?" said Ned. "Well, I never heard of him before, and we don't
want any of his Scotch spelling. That second motto is all wrong; the
press belongs to us, not to any king, and we're not going to misuse it.
The third one would do pretty well, but it says 'she,' and we're none
of us girls."

"Perhaps you can think of a better one," said Phaeton.

"Yes, I can," said Ned. "I heard Uncle Hiram say that printing was
called the art deservative of all arts, and that would be just the
motto for us."

"What does it mean?" said I.

"It means," said Ned, "that printers deserve more than any other
artists."

"Didn't he say _pre_servative?" said Phaeton.

"Oh, no," said Ned; "that wouldn't mean anything. Printing has nothing
to do with preserving--unless we should print the labels for Mother's
fruit-cans next fall. He said 'deservative,' I heard him distinctly,
and we'll put it on the card."

"Very well," said Phaeton; "you set up the card according to your own
taste, and we'll see how we like it."

The next day Phaeton and I went fishing. While we were gone Ned set up
the card, and on our return we found, to our consternation, that he had
not only set it up, but printed scores of them, and given away a good
many to the boys. It ran as follows:

[Illustration]

"Good gracious, Ned!" said Phaeton, "why did you print this thing
before we had seen it?"

"Because I felt sure you'd like it," said Ned, "and I wanted to
surprise you."

"You've succeeded admirably in that," said Phaeton.

"I hope there's nothing wrong about it," said Ned. "I took a great deal
of pains with it. Oh, yes; now I see there's one letter upside down.
But what of that? Very few people will notice it, and they will know
it's an accident."

"One?" said Phaeton. "There are half a dozen standing on their heads.
And that's not the worst. Just look at the spelling!"

"I don't see anything wrong about that," said Ned. "You must remember
that what's wrong by Webster may be right by Worcester."

"What do you call that?" said Phaeton, pointing at the first word in
the third line.

"Job, of course," said Ned. "Some people spell it with a J, but that
can't be right. J-o-b spells Job, the name of that king of Israel who
had so many boils on him at once."

"He wasn't king of Israel," said Phaeton.

"Well, king of Judah, then," said Ned. "I always get those two mixed.
What's the use of being too particular. Those old kings are as dead now
as Julia Cæsar. And everybody knows how dead she is."

"Well, then, what's this?" said Phaeton, pointing to the second word on
the right-hand side of the press.

"Don't you know what dodgers are?" said Ned. "Little bills with
'Bankrupt Sale!' or 'Great Excitement!' or something of that sort
across the top, to throw around in the yards, or hand to the people
coming out of church."

"Oh, yes; dodgers," said Phaeton. "But I never saw it spelled so
before. Have you given out many of these cards?"

"I gave one to Holman," said Ned, "and one to Monkey Roe, and one to
Jack-in-the-Box."

"What did Jack-in-the-Box say to it?" said Phaeton.

"Oh, he admired it amazingly," said Ned. "He said it was the most
entertaining business-card he had ever seen. But he thought perhaps it
would be well for us to have a proof-reader. I asked him what that was,
and he said it was a round-shouldered man, with a green shade over his
eyes, who knew everything. He sits in the corner of your office, and
when you print anything he reads the first one and marks the mistakes
on it, so that you can correct them before you print any more. We might
get Jimmy the Rhymer; he's awful round-shouldered, but he doesn't know
everything. The only man in this town who knows everything is
Jack-in-the-Box himself, and I suppose we couldn't get him."

"I suppose not," said Phaeton, "though I know he'd look over a proof
for us, any time we took one to him. But now tell me whether you've
given out any more of these cards."

"Well, yes, a few," said Ned. "Patsy Rafferty was over here; he rolled
for me, or I couldn't have got them done so soon; and when he went
home, he took fifty to leave at the doors of the houses on his way. I
thought if we were going to do business, it was time to be letting
people know about it."

"Just so," said Phaeton. "And is that all?"

"Not quite. Uncle Jacob was going to ride out to Parma, and I gave him
about forty, and asked him to hand them to people he met on the road."

"Y-e-s," said Phaeton, with a deep sigh; "and is _that_ all?"

"I put a dozen or two on that little shelf by the post-office window,"
said Ned, "so that anybody who came for his letters could take one. And
now that's all; and I hope you won't worry over one or two little
mistakes. Everybody makes some mistakes. There is no use in pretending
to be perfect. But if you two fellows had been here in the office,
instead of going off to enjoy yourselves fishing and leaving me to do
all the work, you might have had the old card just as you wanted it. Of
course you'd have spelled it right, but there might have been bad taste
about it that would look worse than my spelling. And now I'm going home
to supper."

"The worst thing about Ned," said Phaeton, after he had gone, "is, that
there's too much go-ahead in him. Very few people are troubled in that
way."

"But what are we going to do about that dreadful card?" said I. "When
the people see that, they may be afraid to give us any jobs, for fear
that we'll misspell everything."

"I don't know what we can do now," said Phaeton, "unless we get out a
good one, and say on it that no others are genuine. I must think about
it over night."




CHAPTER X.

TORMENTS OF TYPOGRAPHY.


In spite of Ned's declaration that he would tolerate no loungers, the
office soon became a favorite gathering-place for the boys of the
neighborhood; which fact contributed nothing to the speed or accuracy
of the work. They made us a great deal of trouble at first, for few of
them knew better than to take a type out of one box, examine it
curiously, and throw it into another; or lift a page of type that had
just been set up, "to see how heavy it was," and let it drop into a
mass of pi. They got over this after a while, but they never did quite
get over the habit of discussing all sorts of questions in a loud
voice; and sometimes, when we happened to be setting type, and were
interested in what they were talking about, fragments of the
conversation would mingle in our minds with the copy before us, and the
curious effect would horrify us in the proof.

For instance, Monkey Roe's mother had employed us to print her a few
copies of Mrs. Opie's poem, "The Orphan Boy," which she had known since
she was a child, and very greatly admired, but of which she had never
had any but a manuscript copy. While I was setting it up, three boys
were carrying on an animated discussion about the city fire department,
and when I took a proof of my work, I found it read like this:

  Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
  And hear the Brick Church bell strike the 4th District. Ah! sure my
  looks must pity no by crackie Orph Bo Cataract Eight can't begin to
  throw the stream Red Rover Three can--Tis want that makes Reliance
  Five wash my cheek so pale at annual inspection.

  Yet I was once a mother's pride, Three's men cut her hose at the
  Orchard street fire before Bix Six's air chamber busted my brave
  father's hope and joy.

  But in the Nile's proud fight he sucked Archer's well dry in three
  minutes and a half, and I am now Assistant Foreman of Torrent Two
  with a patent brake on the Orphan Boy.

I am afraid if Monkey's mother had seen that, she would hardly have
recognized it as the first stanza of her favorite poem. Instead of
feeling sorry for spoiling my work, the boys seemed to think it was a
good joke, and nearly laughed their heads off over it. They insisted on
my printing a few copies of it, just as it was, for them to keep. Next
time I saw Jack-in-the-Box, he showed me one of them pasted into a
little old scrap-book that he kept under his chair. On the opposite
page was one of our business-cards, as printed by Ned. Jack very kindly
explained to me some of the mysteries of proof-reading.

"The next thing to be done," said Ned, when the office was fairly in
running order, "is to get out Jimmy the Rhymer's poems. That's what we
got up the establishment for, and it'll be more profitable than all
these little puttering jobs put together. And, besides, Jimmy's awful
poor and needs the money. I've been around to the book-stores and told
them about it. Hamilton promises to take ten copies, and Hoyt
twenty-five. When they see how good the poems are, they'll be sure to
double their orders; and when the other stores see the book going off
like hot cakes, they'll rush in and want to buy some, but they'll have
to wait their turn. First come, first served."

There were enough of Jimmy's poems to make a little book of about sixty
pages, and we all went to work with a will to set the type. It would
have been a pretty long job for us, as it was, but Jimmy made it a
great deal longer, and nearly drove us crazy, by insisting on making
changes in them after they were set up. He could not understand how
much extra work this made for us, and was as particular and persistent
as if his whole reputation as an author had hung on each disputed
comma. Sometimes when we had four pages all ready to print, he would
bring in a new stanza, to be inserted in the first page of the form,
which, of course, made it necessary to change the arrangement of all
the others. At last Ned got out of patience.

"You try it yourself once," said he to Jimmy, "and you'll find out
whether it's easy to make all these little changes, as you call them."

Jimmy secretly made up his mind that he would try it himself. He went
to the office one day when we were not there, found four pages "locked
up" ready for printing, and went to work to make a few corrections. As
he did not know how to unlock the form, he stood it up on edge, got a
ten-penny nail and a mallet, and tried to knock out an obnoxious
semicolon.

The result was a sudden bursting of the form, which rattled down into
ruin at his feet, and frightened the meddlesome poet out of his wits.

[Illustration: THE MEDDLESOME POET.]

In his bewilderment, Jimmy scooped up a double handful of the pi and
was in the act of pouring it pell-mell into one of the cases, when
Phaeton, Ned, and I arrived at the door of the office.

Ned, who saw him first, and instantly comprehended the situation, gave
a terrific yell, which caused Jimmy to drop the handful of type, some
of which went into the case, and the rest spattered over the floor.

"Are you trying to ruin the office?" said Ned. "Don't you know better
than to pi a form, and then throw the pi into the cases? After all the
trouble we've had with your old poems, you ought to have more gratitude
than that."

Jimmy was pale with terror, and utterly dumb.

"Hold on, Ned," said Phaeton, laying his hand on his brother's
shoulder. "You ought to have sense enough to know that it must have
been an accident of some sort. Of course Jimmy wouldn't do it
purposely."

"Pieing the form may have been an accident," said Ned; "but when he
scoops up a double handful of the pi and goes to pouring it into the
case, that can't be an accident. And it was my case, too, and I was the
one that did everything for him, and was going to bring him out as a
poet in the world's history. If he had behaved himself, I'd have set
him up in business in a little while, so he could have made as much
money as Sir Walter Tupper, or any of those other fellows that you read
to us about. And now, just look at that case of mine, with probably
every letter of the alphabet in every box of it."

"But I tell you it must have been a mere accident," said Phaeton.
"Wasn't it, Jimmy?"

"Suppose it was an accident," said Ned; "the question is, _whose_
accident was it? If it had been my accident, I should expect to pay for
it."

Phaeton took hold of his brother's arm with a quiet but powerful grasp,
and led him to the door.

"You're needlessly excited, Ned," said he. "Go outside till you get
cooled off." And he put him out and shut the door.

Then he asked Jimmy how it happened, and Jimmy told us about it.

"I'm sorry you poured any of it in the cases," said Phaeton. "For, you
see, the cases have a different letter in every box, and if you take a
handful of type like that and pour it in at random, it makes
considerable trouble."

"Oh, yes; I knew all that before," said Jimmy; "but when the form
burst, and I saw the type all in a mess on the floor, I was so
frightened I lost my head, and didn't know what I was about. I wish I
could pay for it," he added, as he left the office.

"Don't let it trouble you," said Phaeton.

For a long time Jimmy did not come near us again, and as he had carried
off the copy of his remaining poems, that enterprise came to an
end--for the time being, at least.

There was no lack of other jobs, but we sometimes had a little trouble
in collecting the bills. Small boys would keep coming to order
visiting-cards by the hundred, with their name on them in ornamental
letters,--boys who never used any visiting-card but a long, low
whistle, and never had a cent of money except on Fourth of July. When
Phaeton or I was there, they were given to understand that a pressure
of other work compelled us to decline theirs with regret; but, if they
found Ned alone, they generally persuaded him that they had good
prospects of getting money from some source or other, and so went away
with the cards in their pockets.

There was no lack of advice, either. The boys who lounged in the office
were always proposing new schemes. The favorite one seemed to be the
publication of a small paper, which some of them promised to write for,
others to get advertisements for, and others to distribute. After the
book of poems had come to an untimely end, Ned was fierce for going
into the paper scheme; but Phaeton figured it up, declared we should
have to do an immense amount of work for about a cent an hour, and put
an effectual veto on the plan.

Charlie Garrison, who, while the other boys only lounged and gossiped,
"learned the case," and quietly picked up a good deal of knowledge of
the trade, intimated one day that he would like to be taken into the
partnership.

"Yes," said Ned; "there's work enough here for another man; but you'd
have to put in some capital, you know."

"Put in capitals wherever they belong, of course," said Charlie; "begin
proper names and every line of poetry."

"I mean money," said Ned. "Money's called capital, you know, when it's
put into business. We put capital into this office, and you'd have to,
if we took you into partnership."

"Oh, that's it," said Charlie, musingly. "Well, I suppose I could; we
live on the Bowl System at our house; but I should hardly like to take
it."

"The Bowl System? What's that?" said Ned. "Soup, or bread-and-milk, for
every meal?"

"No; not that at all," said Charlie. "You see, on the highest shelf in
our pantry there's a two-quart bowl, with a blue-and-gold rim around
it. Whenever any member of the family gets any money, he puts it into
that bowl; and whenever any of us want any money, we take it out of
that bowl. I've seen the bowl full of money, and I've seen it when it
had only five cents in it. The fullest I ever saw it was just before
sister Edith was married. For a long time they all kept putting in as
much as they could, and hardly took out anything at all, till the bowl
got so full that the money slid off from the top. Then they took it all
out, and went down town and bought her wedding things. And oh, you
ought to have seen them! Stacks and stacks of clothes that I don't even
know the names of."

"Then I suppose you could help yourself to all the capital you want,
out of the bowl?" said Ned.

"Yes, I could," said Charlie; "but I shouldn't like to; for I am the
only one of the family that never puts anything into it. Perhaps other
people don't know it by that name, but brother George calls it living
on the Bowl System."

"Why don't you put the money into the bank?" said Phaeton.

"Father had a lot of money in a bank once," said Charley, "but the bank
broke, and he said he'd never put in any more."

"I wish we lived on the Bowl System at our house," said Monkey Roe. "It
wouldn't be many days before I'd have a velocipede and a
double-barrelled pistol."




CHAPTER XI.

A COMICAL COMET.


The business of the printing-office went on pretty steadily, so far as
Ned and I were concerned. Phaeton's passion for invention would
occasionally lead him off for a while into some other enterprise; yet
he, too, seemed to take a steady interest in "the art deservative." The
most notable of those enterprises was originated by Monkey Roe, who had
considerable invention, but lacked Phaeton's powers of execution.

One day Monkey came to the door of the office with Mitchell's
"Astronomy" in his hand, and called out Phaeton.

"There's some mischief on foot now," said Ned; "and if Fay goes off
fooling with any of Monkey Roe's schemes, we shall hardly be able to
print the two thousand milk-tickets that John Spencer ordered
yesterday. It's too bad."

When they had gone so far from the office that we could not hear their
conversation, I saw Monkey open the book and point out something to
Phaeton. They appeared to carry on an earnest discussion for several
minutes, after which they laid the book on the railing of the fence and
disappeared, going by the postern.

Ned ran out, and brought in the book. On looking it over, we found a
leaf turned down at the chapter on comets. Neither of us had studied
astronomy.

"I know what they're up to," said Ned, after taking a long look at a
picture of Halley's comet. "I heard the other day that Mr. Roe was
learning the art of stuffing birds. I suppose Monkey wants Fay to help
him shoot one of those things, or catch it alive, may be, and sell it
to his father."

Then I took a look at the picture, and read a few lines of the text.

"I don't think it's quite fair in Fay," continued Ned, "to go off on
speculations of that sort for himself alone, and leave us here to do
all the work in the office, when he has an equal share of our profits."

"Ned," said I, "I don't believe this is a bird."

"Well, then, it's a fish," said Ned, who had gone back to his case and
was setting type. "They stuff fishes, as well as birds."

"But it seems to me it can hardly be a fish," said I, after another
look.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't see any fins."

"That's nothing," said Ned. "My book of natural history says a fish's
tail is a big fin. And I'm sure that fellow has tail enough to get
along very well without any other fins."

This did not satisfy me, and at length we agreed to go and consult
Jack-in-the-Box about it.

"Jack," said Ned, as soon as we arrived at the Box, "did you ever stuff
a fish?"

"Do you take me for a cook?" said Jack, looking considerably puzzled.

"I don't mean a fish to bake," said Ned. "I mean one to be put in a
glass case, and kept in a museum."

"Oh," said Jack, "I beg pardon. I didn't understand. No, I never
stuffed a fish."

"But, I suppose you know all about how it's done?" said Ned.

"Oh, yes; I understand it in a general way."

"What I want to get at," said Ned, "is this: how much is a fish worth
that's suitable for stuffing?"

"I don't know exactly," said Jack, "but I should say different ones
would probably bring different prices, according to their rarity."

"That sounds reasonable," said Ned. "Now, how much should you say a
fellow would probably get for one of this sort?" and he opened the
Astronomy at the picture of Halley's comet.

Something was the matter with Jack's face. It twitched around in all
sorts of ways, and his eyes sparkled with a kind of electric light. But
he passed his hand over his features, took a second look at the
picture, and answered:

"If you can catch one of those, I should say it would command a very
high price."

"So I thought," said Ned. "Should you say as much as a hundred dollars,
Jack?"

"I should not hesitate to say fully two hundred," said Jack, as he took
his flag and went out doors to signal a freight-train.

"I see it all, as plain as day," said Ned to me, as we walked away.
"Fay has gone off to make a lot of money by what father would call an
outside speculation, and left us to dig away at the work in the
office."

"Perhaps he'll go shares with us," said I.

"No, he won't," said Ned. "But I have an idea. I think I can take a
hand in that speculation."

"How will you do it?"

"I'll offer Fay and Monkey a hundred dollars for their fish, if they
catch it. That'll seem such a big price, they'll be sure to take it.
And then I'll sell it for two hundred, as Jack says. So I'll make as
much money as both of them together. And I must give Jack a handsome
present for telling me about it."

"That seems to be a good plan," said I. "And I hope they'll catch two,
so that I can buy one and speculate on it. But, then," I added,
sorrowfully, "I haven't the hundred dollars to pay for it, and there's
no Aunt Mercy in our family, and we don't live on the Bowl System."

"Never mind," said Ned, in a comforting tone. "Perhaps you'll inherit a
big fortune from some old grandmother you never heard of, till she died
and they ripped open her bed-tick and let the gold tumble out. Lots of
people do."

As we arrived home, we saw Phaeton and Monkey coming by the postern
with half a dozen hoops--that is to say, half a dozen long, thin strips
of ash, which would have been hoops after the cooper had bent them into
circles and fastened the ends together.

"That's poor stuff to make fish-poles," said Ned, in a whisper; "but
don't let them know that we know what they're up to."

They brought them into the office, got some other pieces of wood, and
went to work constructing a light frame about ten feet long, three feet
high at the highest part, and a foot wide--like that shown in the
engraving.

[Illustration: THE FRAME.]

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

"Wait a while, and you'll see," said Phaeton.

Ned winked at me in a knowing way, and we went on printing
milk-tickets.

When the frame was completed, Monkey and Phaeton went away.

"I see," whispered Ned. "They're going to catch him with a net. The
netting will be fastened on all around here, and this big end left open
for him to go in. Then, when he gets down to this round part, he'll
find he can't go any farther, and then they'll haul him up. It's all as
plain as day."

But when Monkey and Phaeton returned, in about half an hour, instead of
netting they brought yellow tissue-paper and several candles.

We pretended to take very little interest in the proceeding, but
watched them over our shoulders. When we saw them fasten the
tissue-paper all around the frame, except on the top, and fit the
candles into auger-holes bored in the cross-pieces at the bottom, Ned
whispered to me again:

"Don't you see? That isn't a net. They're going to have a light in it,
and carry it along the shore to attract the fish. It's plain enough
now."

"If you'll be on hand to-night," said Monkey, "and follow us, you may
see some fun."

"All right! We'll be on hand," said Ned and I.

In the evening we all met in the office--all except Phaeton, who was a
little late.

"Monkey," said Ned, in a confidential tone, "I want to make you an
offer."

"Offer away," answered Monkey.

"If you catch one," said Ned, "I'll give you a hundred dollars for it."

"If I catch one?" said Monkey. "If--I--catch--one? Oh, yes--all right!
I'll give you whatever I catch, for that price. Though I may not catch
anything but Hail Columbia."

"But I won't take it unless it's the kind they stuff," said Ned.

"The kind--they--stuff?" said Monkey. "Did you say the kind _they_
stuff, or the kind _of_ stuff? Oh, yes--the kind of Hail Columbia they
stuff. That would be a bald eagle, I should think."

At this moment Phaeton joined us.

"It's no use, Fay," said Monkey. "Jack won't let us hoist it on the
signal-pole. He says it might mislead some of the engineers, and work
mischief."

"Hoist it on the signal-pole," whispered Ned to me. "Then it's a bird
they're going to catch, after all, and not a fish. I see it now.
Probably some wonderful kind of night-hawk."

"Well, then, what do you think is the next best place?" said Phaeton.

"I think Haven's barn, by all odds," Monkey answered promptly.

"Haven's barn it is, then," said Phaeton, and they shouldered the thing
and walked off, we following.

Before we arrived at the barn, Holman, Charlie Garrison, and at least a
dozen other boys had joined us, one by one.

The numerous ells and sheds attached to this barn enabled Monkey and
Phaeton to mount easily to the ridgepole of the highest part, where
they fastened the monster, and quickly lighted all her battle-lanterns,
when she blazed out against the blackness of the night like some
terrific portent.

"Now you stay here and keep her in order," said Monkey, "while I go for
Adams."

Mr. Adams was an amateur astronomer of considerable local celebrity,
whose little observatory, built by himself, was about fifty rods
distant from Haven's barn. Unfortunately, his convivial habits were as
famous as his scientific attainments, and Roe knew about where to find
him. I went with him on the search.

We went first to the bar-room of the "Cataract House, by James Tone,"
but we did not find him there.

"Then," said Roe, "I know where he is, for sure," and he went to a
dingy, wooden building on State street, which had small windows with
red curtains. This building was ornamented with a poetical sign, which
every boy in town knew by heart, and could sing to the tune of "Oats,
peas, beans."

  W. WHEELER KEEPS IN HERE,
  SELLS GROCERIES, CIDER, ALE, AND BEER;
  HIS PRODUCE IS GOOD, HIS WEIGHT IS JUST,
  HIS PROFITS SMALL, AND CANNOT TRUST;
  AND THOSE WHO BUY SHALL BE WELL USED,
  SHALL NOT BE CHEATED, NOR ABUSED.

"Is Professor Adams present?" said Monkey, as he opened the door and
peered through a cloud of tobacco smoke.

An individual behind the stove returned a drowsy affirmative.

Roe stepped around to him, and with a great show of secrecy whispered
something in his ear.

He sprang from his chair, exclaimed, "Good night, gentlemen! You will
wake up to-morrow morning to find me famous," and dashed out at the
door.

"What is it?" said one of the loungers, detaining Monkey as he was
about to leave.

"A comet," whispered Monkey.

"A comet, gentlemen--a blazing comet!" repeated the man aloud; and the
whole company rose and followed the astronomer to his observatory. When
they arrived there, they found him sitting with his eye at the
instrument, uttering exclamations of thankfulness that he had lived to
make this great discovery.

[Illustration: "A COMET, GENTLEMEN--A BLAZING COMET!"]

"Not Biela's, not Newton's, not Encke's--not a bit like any of them,"
said he; "all my own, gentlemen--entirely my own!"

Then he took up his slate, and went to figuring upon it. Several of the
crowd, who were now jammed close together around him in the little
octagonal room, made generous offers of assistance.

"I was always good at the multiplication-table," said one of them.

"I have a fine, clear eye," said another; "can't I help yez aim the
pipe?"

This excited a laugh of derision from another, who inquired whether the
man with the fine, clear eye "didn't know a pipe from a chube?"

Another rolled up his sleeves, and said he was ready to take his turn
at the crank for the cause of science; while still another expressed
his willingness to blow the bellows all night, if Professor Adams would
show him where the handle was.

They all insisted on having a peep at the comet through the telescope,
and with some jostling took turns about.

One man, after taking a look, murmured solemnly:

"That thing bodes no good to this city; I'm going home to make my
will," and elbowed his way out of the room.

"Ah, Professor," said another, "your fortune's made for all time.
This'll be known to fame as the Great American Comet. I dare say it's
as big as all the comets of the old world put together."

Mr. Wheeler took an unusually long look.

"Gentlemen," said he, "I don't believe that comet will stay with us
long. We'd better leave the Professor to his calculations, while we go
back and have a toast to his great discovery."

But nobody stirred. Then Mr. Wheeler left the observatory, and walked
straight up to Haven's barn. He picked up a cart-stake, swung it around
his head, and hurled it; and, in the twinkling of an eye, that comet
had passed its perihelion, and shot from the solar system in so long an
ellipse that I fear it will never return.

Unfortunately, the flying cart-stake not only put out the comet, but
struck Phaeton, who had been left there by Monkey Roe to manage the
thing, and put his arm out of joint. He bore it heroically, and climbed
down to the ground alone before he told us what had happened. Then, as
he nearly fainted away, we helped him home, while Holman ran for the
family physician, who arrived in a few minutes and set the arm.

"It serves me right," said Phaeton, "for ever lending myself to any of
Monkey Roe's schemes to build a mere fool-thing."

"I'm sorry you're hurt," said Ned; "but it does seem as if that comet
was a silly machine, only intended to deceive me and Professor Adams,
instead of being for the good of mankind, like your other inventions.
And now you won't be able to do anything in the printing-office for a
long while, just when we're crowded with work. If you were not my own
brother, and such an awful good fellow, we wouldn't let you have any
share of the profits for the next month."




CHAPTER XII.

A LITERARY MYSTERY.


The printing-office enjoyed a steady run of custom, and, as Ned had
said, we were just now crowded with work. Almost every hour that we
were not in bed, or at school, was spent in setting type or pulling the
press. It was not uncommon for Ned to work with a sandwich on the
corner of his case; and, as often as he came to a period, he would stop
and take a bite.

"This is the way Barnum used to do," said he, "when he started his
museum--take his lunch with him, and stay right there. It's the only
way to make a great American success"--and he took another bite, his
dental semicircle this time inclosing a portion of the bread that bore
a fine proof-impression of his thumb and finger in printer's ink.

Though Phaeton was not able, for some time, to take a hand at the work,
he rendered good service by directing things, as the head of the firm.
He was often suspicious, where Ned and I would have been taken in at
once, as to the circuses and minstrel shows for which the boys used to
come and order tickets and programmes by the hundred, always proposing
to pay for them out of the receipts of the show. The number of these
had increased enormously, and it looked as if the boys got them up
mainly for the sake of seeing themselves in print. Sometimes they would
write out the most elaborate programmes, and then want them printed at
once, before their enterprises had any existence except on paper. One
boy, whose father was an actor, made out a complete cast of the play of
"Romeo and Juliet," with himself for the part of _Romeo_, and Monkey
Roe as _Juliet_.

One day a little curly-headed fellow, named Moses Green, came to the
office, and wanted us to print a hundred tickets like this:

  +-------------------+
  |   MOSE GREEN'S    |
  |  MINSTREL SHOW.   |
  | Admit the Bearer. |
  +-------------------+

"Where's your show going to be?" said Phaeton.

"I don't know," said Moses. "If Uncle James should sell his horses,
perhaps he would let me have it in his barn."

"Yes, that would be a good place," said Phaeton. "And who are your
actors?"

"I don't know," said Moses. "But I'm going to ask Charlie Garrison,
because he's got a good fife; and Lem Whitney, because he knows how to
black up with burnt cork; and Andy Wilson, because he knows 'O Susanna'
all by heart."

"And what is the price of admission?" said Phaeton.

"I don't know," said Moses. "But I thought if the boys wouldn't pay
five cents, I'd take four."

"I'll tell you what 'tis, Moses," said Phaeton; "we're badly crowded
with work just now, and it would accommodate us if you could wait a
little while. Suppose you engage your actors first, and rehearse the
pieces that you're going to play, and get the barn rigged up, and burn
the cork, and make up your mind about the price; and then give us a
call, and we'll be happy to print your tickets for you."

"All right," said Moses. "I'll go home and burn a cork, right away."

And he went off, whistling "O Susanna."

"Fay, I think that's bad policy," said Ned, when Moses was out of
sight.

"I don't see how you can say that," said Phaeton.

"It's as plain as day," said Ned. "We ought to have gone right on and
printed his tickets. Suppose he hasn't any show, and never will have
one--what of it? We shouldn't suffer. His father would see that our
bill was paid. I've heard Father say that Mr. Green was the very soul
of honor."

"Ah, Ned, I'm afraid you're getting more sharp than honest," said
Phaeton.

From the fact that our school has hardly been mentioned in this story,
it must not be inferred that we were not all this time acquiring
education by the usual methods. The performances here recorded took
place out of school-hours, or on Saturdays, when there was no school.
The events inside the temple of learning were generally so dull that
they would hardly interest the story-reader.

Yet there was now and then an accident or exploit which relieved the
tediousness of study-time. On one occasion, Robert Fox brought to
school, as part of his luncheon, a bottle of pop-beer. An hour before
intermission we were startled by a tremendous hissing and foaming
sound, and the heads of the whole school were instantly turned toward
the quarter whence it came. There was Fox with the palm of his hand
upon the cork, which was half-way in the bottle that stood upon the
floor beside his desk. Though he threw his whole weight upon it, he
could not force it in any farther, and the beer rose like a fountain
almost to the ceiling, and fell in a beautiful circle, of which Fox and
his bottle were the interesting centre.

[Illustration: "IT ROSE LIKE A FOUNTAIN."]

Any boy who has ever attended a school taught by an irascible master
will readily imagine the sequel. Isaac Holman recorded the affair in
the form of a Latin fable, which was so popular that we printed it.
Here it is:

VULPES ET BEER.

_Quondam vulpes bottulum poppi beeris in schola tulit, quod in arca
reponebat. Sed corda laxa, ob vim beeris, cortex collum reliquit, et
beer, spumans, se pavimento effudit. Deinde magister capit unum
extremum lori, ci vulpes alterum sentiebat. Hæc fabula docet that, when
you bring pop-beer to school, you should tie the string so tight that
it can't pop off before lunch-time._

When Jack-in-the-Box saw this fable, he said it was a good fable, and
he was proud of his pupil, though some of the tenses were a little out
of joint.

Holman said the reason why he put the moral in English was, because
that was the important part of it, and ought to be in a language that
everybody could understand.

Monkey Roe said he was glad to hear this explanation, as he had been
afraid it was because Holman had got to the end of his Latin.

Charlie Garrison, in attempting to criticise the title of the fable,
only exposed himself to ridicule.

"It must be a mistake," said he; "for you know you can't eat beer. It's
plain enough that it ought to be, _Vulpes_" (he pronounced this word in
one syllable) "_drank beer_."

This shows the perils of ignorance. If Charlie had had a thorough
classical training, he wouldn't have made such a mistake. It was a
curious fact that the boys who had never studied Latin, and to whom the
blunder had to be explained, laughed at him more unmercifully than
anybody else.

But Holman's literary masterpiece (if it was his) was in rhyme, and in
some respects it remains a mystery to this day.

One evening he called to see me, and intimated that he had some
confidential business on hand, for which we would better adjourn to the
printing-office, and accordingly we went there.

"I want a job of printing done," said he, "provided it can be done in
the right way."

"We shall be glad to do it as well as we possibly can," said I. "What
is it?"

"I can't tell you what it is," said he.

"Well, let me see the manuscript," said I.

"There isn't any manuscript," said he.

"Oh, it isn't prepared yet?" said I. "When will it be ready?"

"There never will be any manuscript for it," said he.

I began to be puzzled. Still, I remembered that small signs and labels
were often printed, consisting of only a word or two, which did not
require any copy.

"Is it a sign?" said I.

"No."

"Labels?"

"No."

"Then what in the world is it? And how do you suppose I am going to
print for you, unless I know what to print?"

"That's the point of the whole business," said Isaac. "I want you to
let me come into your office, and use your type and press to print a
little thing that concerns nobody but myself, and I don't care to have
even you know about it. I want you to let me do all the work myself,
when you are not here, and I shall wash up the rollers, distribute the
type, destroy all my proofs, and leave everything in the office as I
found it. Of course I shall pay you the same as if you did the work."

"But how can you set the type?" said I. "You don't even know the case,
do you?"

"No," said he; "but I suppose the letters are all in it somewhere, and
I can find them with a little searching."

"And do you know how to lock up a form?" said I.

"I've often seen you do it," said he; "and I think I'm mechanic enough
to manage it."

"When do you want to go to work?"

"_Duo eques, rectus ab_--to-night, right away."

"Very well--good night!" said I.

When I went to the office next day, I found Ned busily at work trying
to fit together some small torn scraps of paper. They were printed on
one side, and, as fast as he found where one belonged, he fastened it
in place by pasting it to a blank sheet which he had laid down as a
foundation. When I arrived, the work had progressed as far as this:

             TO ON     ED.

  Vainly    trive      sweetness--
  Instantly comet     back:
  Over    rt rol    dream    its fleetness,
    with its tor            and rack.
    how I sigh          my            od.
  Going in fan            long agone.--
  Looking cross             he jo
  I knew er                 me dawn
    earest and bes            aughters.
      aspire t      ove    regard?
  Even in        otus dext       aters,
  Never again to       ai         ward.

"Here's a mystery," said Ned.

"What is it?" said I.

"Did you print this?" said he, suddenly looking into my face
suspiciously.

"No," said I, calmly; "I never saw it before."

"Well, then, somebody must have broken into our office last night. For
when I came in this morning, I found the oil all burned out of the big
lamp,--I filled it yesterday,--and these torn scraps in the wood-box. I
got so many together pretty easily, but I can't find another one that
will fit."

"It looks as if it had been a poem," said I.

"Yes," said Ned; "of course it was. And oh, look here! It was an
acrostic, too!"

Ned took out his pencil, and filled in what he supposed to be the
missing initial letters, making the name VIOLA GLIDDEN.

"It _may_ have been an acrostic," said I; "but you can't tell with
certainty, so much is missing."

"There isn't any doubt in my mind," said Ned; "and it's perfectly
evident who was the burglar. Everybody knows who's sweet on Viola
Glidden."

"I should think a good many would be sweet on her," said I; "she's the
handsomest girl in town."

"Well, then," said Ned, "look at that 'otus dext.' Of course it was
_totus dexter_,--and who's the boy that uses that classic expression? I
wouldn't have thought that so nice a fellow as Holman would break in
here at midnight, and put his mushy love-poetry into print at our
expense. He must have been here about all night, for that lamp full of
oil lasts nine hours."

"There's an easy way to punish him, whoever he was," said Phaeton, who
had come in in time to hear most of our conversation.

"How is that?" said Ned.

"Get out a handbill," said Phaeton, "and spread it all over town,
offering a reward of one cent for the conviction of the burglar who
broke into our office last night and printed an acrostic, of which the
following is a fac-simile of a mutilated proof. Then set up this, just
as you have it here."

"That's it; that'll make him hop," said Ned. "I'll go to work on it at
once."

"But," said I, "it'll make Miss Glidden hop too."

"Let her hop."

"But then perhaps her brother John will call around and make you hop."

"He can't do it," said Ned. "The man that owns a printing-press can
make everybody else hop, and nobody can make him hop--unless it is a
man that owns another press. Whoever tries to fight a printing-press
always gets the worst of it. Father says so, and he knows, for he tried
it on the _Vindicator_ when he was running for sheriff and they
slandered him."

At this point I explained that Holman had not come there without
permission, and that he expected to pay for everything.

"Then why didn't you tell us that before?" said Phaeton.

"I was going to tell you he had been here," said I, "and that he did
not want any of us to know what he printed. But when I saw that you had
found that out, I thought perhaps, in fairness to him, I ought not to
tell you _who_ it was."

"All right," said Ned. "Of course, it's none of our business how much
love-poetry Holman makes, or how spooney it is, or what girl he sends
it to, if he pays for it all. But don't forget to charge him for the
oil. By the way, so many of the boys owe us for printing, I've bought a
blank-book to put the accounts in, or we shall forget some of them.
Monkey Roe's mother paid for the 'Orphan Boy' yesterday. I'll put that
down now. Half a dollar wasn't enough to charge her; we must make it up
on the next job we do for her or Monkey."

While he was saying this, he wrote in his book:

_Mrs. Roe per Monkey 12 orphan boys 50 Paid._

Hardly had he finished the entry, when the door of the office was
suddenly opened, and Patsy Rafferty thrust in his head and shouted:

"Jimmy the Rhymer's killed!"

"What?"

"What?"

"I say Jimmy the Rhymer's killed! And you done it, too!"

I am sorry that Patsy said "done," when he meant _did_. But he was a
good-hearted boy, nevertheless; and probably his excitement was what
made him forget his grammar.

"What do you mean?" said Ned, who had turned as pale as ashes.

"You ought to know what I mean," said Patsy. "Just because he had the
bad luck to spill a few of your old types, you abused him like a
pickpocket, and said he'd got to pay for 'em, and drove him out of the
office. And he's been down around the depot every day since, selling
papers, tryin' to make money enough to pay you. And now he's got runned
over be a hack, when he was goin' across the street to a gentleman that
wanted a paper. And they've took him home,--and his blood's all along
the road,--and my mother says it's on your head, too, you miserable
skinflint! I won't have any of your gifts!"

And with that Patsy thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out the
visiting-cards that Ned had printed for him, and threw them high into
the room, so that in falling they scattered over everything.

"I'll bring back your car," he continued, "as soon as I can get it. I
lent it to Teddy Dwyer last week."

Then he shut the door with a bang, and went away.

We looked at one another in consternation.

"What shall we do?" said Ned.

"I think we ought to go to Jimmy's house at once," said I.

"Yes, of course," said Ned.

And he and I started. Phaeton went the other way--as we afterward
learned, to inform his mother, who had long been noted for her
benevolence in cases of distress and sorrow among her neighbors.

Ned and I not only went by the postern, but made a bee-line for Jimmy's
house, going over any number of fences, and straight through
door-yards, grass-plots, and garden-patches, without the slightest
reference to streets or paths.

We left in such a hurry that we forgot to lock up the office. While we
were gone, Monkey Roe sauntered in, found Holman's acrostic which Ned
had pieced together, and, when he went away, carried it with him.




CHAPTER XIII.

A LYRIC STRAIN.


The impulse which had sent Ned and me headlong toward Jimmy's home as
soon as we heard of the accident, found itself exhausted when we
reached the gate. As if by concert, we both came to a dead halt.

"What shall we do?" said Ned. "If Jimmy was alive, we could whistle and
call him out; or we might even go and knock at the door. But I don't
know how to go into a house where somebody's dead. I wish we had gone
first and asked Jack-in-the-Box what was the right way to do."

"Perhaps Jimmy isn't dead," said I. "There's no black crape on the
door."

"That doesn't prove it," said Ned; "for Jimmy's folks might not have
any crape in the house."

While we were still debating the question, the front door opened, and
Jack-in-the-Box came out.

"You're the very boy--I mean man--I wanted to see," said Ned, running
up to him, and speaking in a whisper.

"That's fortunate," said Jack. "Tell me what I can do for you."

"Why, you see," said Ned, "we came right over here as soon as we heard
about Jimmy. But we don't know the right way to go into a house where
anybody's dead. We never did it before."

"Jimmy isn't dead," said Jack.

Ned literally gave a great bound. I suppose he felt as if he had been
suddenly acquitted of a serious charge of murder.

"Oh, Jack, how lovely!" said he, and threw his arms around Jack's neck.
"But I suppose he must be hurt, though?"

"Yes," said Jack, "he's pretty badly hurt."

"Still, if he's alive, we can do something for him," said Ned.

"Oh, certainly!" said Jack. "A great deal can be done for him--a great
deal has been done already. But I think you'd better not go in to see
him just yet. Wait a few days, till he gets stronger," and Jack hurried
away.

We still lingered before the house, and presently a little girl came
out, eyed us curiously, and then went to swinging on the chain that
supported the weight which kept the gate shut.

"You don't seem to go along," said she, after a while.

We made no answer.

"Did you want to know about my brother Jimmy?" said she, after another
pause.

"Yes," said I, "we'd be glad to hear all about him."

"Well, I'll tell you all about it," said she. "Jimmy's hurt very
bad--because he was runned over by a wagon--because he got in the
way--because he didn't see it--because a gentleman wanted a paper on
the other side of the street--because Jimmy was selling them--because
he wanted to get money--because he had to pay a great lot of it to a
naughty, ugly boy that lives over that way somewhere--because he just
touched one of that boy's old things, and it fell right to pieces. And
he said Jimmy'd got to pay money for it, and shouldn't come in his
house any more. And Jimmy was saving all his money to pay; and he's got
two dollars and a half already from the papers, besides a dollar that
Isaac Holman gave him to write a poem for him. And that makes almost
five dollars, I guess."

"Let's go home," said Ned.

But I lingered to ask one question of the voluble little maiden.

"What poem did Jimmy write for Isaac Holman?"

"I don't know," she answered. "It's the only poem Jimmy ever wouldn't
read to me. He said it was very particular, and he mustn't let anybody
see it."

A literary light dawned in upon me, as we slowly walked away.

Ned was silent for a long time. At last he spoke.

"I feel sick," said he.

"What's the matter?" said I.

"The matter is," said he, "that everybody seems to be trying to make
out that it's all my fault that Jimmy got hurt."

"Patsy Rafferty and Jimmy's sister are not everybody," said I

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