"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 VIOLAGLIDDEN.
"Itmayhave 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 wastotus 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 theVindicatorwhen 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 youwhoit 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 meantdid. 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.
A LYRIC STRAIN.
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.
"Of course not; but they only talk what they hear other people say."
"I suppose you were a little to blame," said I.
"Perhaps I was," said Ned, "and I wish I could do something for him. I'd get any amount of money out of Aunt Mercy—if money would do him any good."
As our way home led us past Jack's box, I suggested that we should stop and consult him about it.
"Jack," said Ned, "please tell us exactly how it is about Jimmy."
"The poor boy is fearfully hurt," said Jack. "One leg is broken, and the other badly bruised."
"Do you know of anything we can do for him?"
"What do you think of doing?" said Jack.
"If money was wanted," said Ned, and the tears started in his eyes, "I could work on Aunt Mercy's feelings and get him any amount."
Jack drummed with his fingers on the arm of his chair, and said nothing for some minutes. Then he spoke slowly.
"I doubt if the family would accept a gift of money from any source."
"Couldn't I, at least, pay the doctor's bill?" said Ned.
"You might," said Jack.
"Yes, of course," said Ned; "I can go to the doctor privately, and tell him not to charge them a cent, and Aunt Mercy'll pay him. That's the way to do it. What doctor do they have?"
"Dr. Grill."
"Dr. Grill!" Ned repeated in astonishment. "Why, Dr. Grill doesn't know anything at all. Father says somebody said if a sick man was made of glass, and had a Drummond light in his stomach, Dr. Grill couldn't see what ailed him."
"We don't need a Drummond light to see what ails Jimmy," said Jack, quietly.
"Still," said Ned, "he ought to have a good doctor. Can't you tell them to get Dr. Campbell? Father says he has tied the croaking artery nineteen times. Dr. Campbell is the man for my money! But how queer it must feel to have nineteen hard knots tied in your croaking artery. Do you think Jimmy's croaking artery will have to be tied up, Jack? If it does, I tell you what, Dr. Campbell's the man to do it."
Jack laughed immoderately. But Ned was not the only person who ever made himself ridiculous by recommending a physician too enthusiastically.
"I don't see what you're laughing at," said he. "It seems to me it's a pretty serious business."
"I was only laughing at a harmless little mistake of yours," said Jack. "When you said 'the croaking artery,' I presume you meant the carotid artery—this one here in the side of the neck."
"If that's the right name of it, that's what I meant," said Ned.
"And when your father said Dr. Campbell had tied it nineteen times," continued Jack, "he didn't mean that he had tied nineteen hard knots in one person's, but that he had had occasion to tie the artery in nineteen different persons."
"And will Jimmy's have to be tied?" said Ned.
"As the carotid artery is in the neck, and Jimmy's injuries are all in his legs, I should say not," said Jack.
"Of course not; I might have thought of that," said Ned. "But you see, Jack, I don't know much about doctor-things anyway, and to-day I don't know what I do know, for everybody's been saying I'm to blame for Jimmy's hurt, and making me feel like a murderer. I'll do whatever you say, Jack. If you say run for Dr. Campbell, I'll go right away."
"I think Dr. Grill will do everything that ought to be done," said Jack. "There's nothing you can do now, but perhaps we can think of something when Jimmy begins to get well."
"Then you think he will get well?" said Ned.
"I hope he will," said Jack.
"I tell you what 'tis," said Ned, as we continued our walk toward home, "that Jack-in-the-Box is the nicest fellow that ever waved a flag. Sometimes I think he knows more than Father does."
A day or two later, Ned went to see his aunt, and I went with him.
"Aunt Mercy," said he, "one of the best boys in this town has got badly hurt—run over down by the depot—and his folks are so awful poor I don't see what they're going to do."
"Yes, I heard about it," said Aunt Mercy. "It was that wretched, brutal brother of yours who was to blame for it all."
"Oh no, Aunty, Fay had nothing at all to do with it," said Ned.
"Don't tell me, child; you needn't try to shield your wicked brother; I know all about it. Miss Pinkham came to call on me, and told me the whole story. She said the poor little fellow tipped over a type or something, and one of those Rogers boys drove him away, and swore at him dreadfully, and made him go and sell papers under the wheels of the cars and omnibuses, to get money to pay for it. Of course I knew which one it was, but I did not say anything, I felt so deeply mortified for the family."
It is difficult to say what answer Ned ought to have made to this. To convince his aunt that Miss Pinkham's version of the story was incorrect, would have been hopeless; to plead guilty to the indictment as it stood, would have been unjust to himself; and to leave matters as they were, seemed unjust to his brother. And above all was the consideration that if he vexed his aunt, he would probably defeat the whole object of his visit—getting help for Jimmy. So he remained silent.
"What were you going to say, Edmund Burton, about poor Jimmy Redmond?" said his aunt.
"I was going to say," Ned answered, "that I wished I could help him a little by paying his doctor's bill, and not let him know anything about it."
"You lovely, benevolent boy!" exclaimed Aunt Mercy, "that's exactly what you shall do. You're an ornament to the family. Your right hand doesn't know what your left hand's doing. As soon as you find out what the doctor's bill is, come to me, and I'll furnish you the money. Oh, what a pity that hard-hearted brother won't follow your noble example."
Jimmy had the best of care; Mrs. Rogers did a great deal, in a quiet, almost unnoticeable way, to add to his comforts; and after a while it was announced that he might receive short visits from the boys.
Phaeton, Ned, and I were his first visitors. We found him lying in a little room where the sunbeams poured in at a south window, but not till they had been broken into all sorts of shapes by the foliage of a wistaria, the shadows of which moved with every breeze to and fro across a breadth of rag carpet.
The walls were ornamented with a dozen or twenty pictures—some of them out of old books and papers, and some drawn and painted in water-colors by Jimmy himself—none of them framed. The water-colors were mainly illustrations of his own poems. I am not able to say whether they possessed artistic merit, for I was a boy at the time, and of course a boy, who only knows what pleases him, can not be expected to know what is artistic and ought to please him. But some of them appeared to me very wonderful, especially one that illustrated "The Unlucky Fishermen." It was at the point where Joe and Isaac were trying to catch a ride behind an omnibus. Not only did the heroes themselves appear completely tired out by the long day of fruitless fishing, but the dog looked tired, the bus horses were evidently tired, the driver was tired, the boy who called out "Whip behind!" was tired, even the bus itself had a tired look, and this general air of weariness produced in the picture a wonderful unity of effect.
Jimmy looked so pale and thin, as he lay there, that we were all startled, and Ned seemed actually frightened. He lost control of himself, and broke out passionately:
"Oh, Jimmy, dear Jimmy, you mustn't die! We can't have you die! We'll get all the doctors in the city, and buy you everything you need, only don't die!"
Here he thrust his hand into his pocket, and brought out two silver dollars.
"Take them, Jimmy, take them!" said he. "Aunt Mercy's got plenty more that you can have when these are gone. And we don't care anything about the type you pied. I'd rather pi half the type in the office than see your leg broken. We can't any of us spare you. Live, Jimmy, live! and you may be proof-reader in our office,—we need one dreadfully, Jack-in-the-Box says so,—and you know pretty nearly everything, and can soon learn the rest, and we'll get you the green shade for your eyes, and you're awful round-sho—that is, I mean, in fact, I think you are the very man for it. And you can grow up with the business, and always have a good place. And then, Jimmy, if you want to use your spare time in setting up your poems, you may, and change them just as much as you want to, and we won't charge you a cent for the use of the type."
Ned certainly meant this for a generous offer, and Jimmy seemed to consider it so; but if he could have taken counsel of some of the sad-faced men who have spent their lives in proof-reading, I think, perhaps, he would have preferred to die.
Ned had scarcely finished his apostrophe, when Jimmy's little sister brought in a beautiful bouquet, sent by Miss Glidden to brighten up the sick boy's chamber.
Looking around, we saw that other friends had been equally thoughtful. Isaac Holman had sent a basket of fruit; Monkey Roe, a comic almanac, three or four years old, but just as funny; Jack-in-the-Box a bottle of cordial; and Patsy Rafferty, a small bag of marbles. Whether these last had been acquired by honest purchase, or by the gambling operation known as "playing for good," it would be ungenerous to inquire.
"How do you amuse yourself, Jimmy?" said Phaeton.
"I don't have much amusement," answered Jimmy; "but still I can write a little."
"Poetry?" said Phaeton.
"Oh, yes," said Jimmy; "I write very little except poetry. There's plenty of prose in the world already."
"Perhaps," said Phaeton, "if you feel strong enough, you'll read us your latest poem."
"Yes, certainly, if you'd like to hear it," said Jimmy. "Please pull out a box that you'll see under the head of my bed here."
Phaeton thrust his arm under, and pulled out a pine box, which was fastened with a small brass padlock.
"The key is under the dying hound," said Jimmy.
Looking around the room, we saw that one of Jimmy's pictures represented a large dog dying, and a little boy and girl weeping over it. Whether it was Beth Gelert, or some other heroic brute, I do not know. The corner of this picture being lifted, disclosed a small key, hung over the head of a carpet-tack driven into the wall.
When the box was opened, we saw that it was nearly full of manuscripts.
"The last one," said Jimmy, who could not turn from his one position on the bed, "is written on blue paper, with a piece torn off from the upper right-hand corner."
Phaeton soon found it, and handed it to Jimmy.
"It is called an 'Ode to a Horseshoe'—that one over the door," said Jimmy. "I found it in the road the day before I was hurt, and brought it right home, and put it up there."
"Then it hasn't brought you much good luck, so far, has it?" said Phaeton.
"I don't know about that," said Jimmy. "It's true I was hurt the very next day; but something seems to have brought me a great many good friends."
"Oh! you always had those, horseshoe or no horseshoe," said Ned.
"I'm glad if I did," said Jimmy; "though I never suspected it. But now I should like to read you the poem, and get your opinions on it; because it's in a different vein from most of my others." And then Jimmy read us his verses:
When the reading was finished we all remained silent, till Jimmy spoke.
"I should like to have you give me your opinions about it," said he. "Don't be afraid to criticise it. Of course, there must be faults in it."
"That's an awful good moral about the hard knocks," said I.
"Yes," said Phaeton, "it might be drawn from Jimmy's own experience. And as he says, the poem does seem to be in a new vein. I noticed a good many words that were different from any in his other pieces."
"That," said Jimmy, "is because I've been studying some of the older poets lately. Jack-in-the-Box lent me Shakespeare, and I got three or four others from the school library. Probably they have had some effect on my style."
Ned walked to the door, and, standing tiptoe, looked intently at the horseshoe.
"One thing is certain," said he, "that passage about the toe-calk is perfectly true to nature. The toe-calk is nearly worn away, and the heel-calks are almost as bad."
"It's a good poem," said I. "I don't see how you could make it any better."
"Nor I," said Phaeton. "It tells the whole story."
"I'm glad you like it," said Jimmy. "I felt a little uncertain about dipping into the lyric strain."
"Yes," said Ned; "there's just one spot where it shows the strain, and I don't see another thing wrong about it."
"What's that?" said Jimmy.
"Perhaps we'd better not talk about it till you get well," said Ned.
"Oh, never mind that," said Jimmy. "I don't need my legs to write poetry with, or to criticise it, either."
"Well," said Ned, "I hate to find fault with it, because it's such a good poem, and I enjoyed it so much; but it seems to me you've strained the truth a little where you say 'a hundred thousand miles.'"
"How so?" said Jimmy.
"Calculate it for yourself," said Ned. "No horse is likely to travel more than about fifty miles a day. And if he did that every day, he'd go three hundred miles in a week. At that rate, it would take him more than six years to travel a hundred thousand miles. But no shoe lasts a horse six years—nor one year, even. So, you see, this couldn't have travelled a hundred thousand miles. That's why I say the lyric strain is strained a little too much."
"I see," said Jimmy. "You are undoubtedly right. I shall have to soften it down to a dozen thousand, or something like that."
"Yes," said Ned; "soften it down. When that's done, the poem will be perfect; there won't be a single fact misstated in it."
At this point, Phaeton said he thought we had staid as long as we ought to, and should be going.
"I wish, Jimmy," said Ned, "you'd let me take this poem and read it to Jack-in-the-Box. I know he would enjoy it."
"I've no objection," said Jimmy. "And if you can find time some day to print it for me, here's two dollars to pay for the job," and he thrust Ned's money back into his hand.
"All right!" said Ned, as he saw that Jimmy would not accept the money, and yet did not want to refuse it rudely. "We'll try to make a handsome job of it. Perhaps some day it will be printed on white satin, and hung up in the Emperor of China's palace, like—whose poem was it Father told about the other day, Fay?"
"Derzhavin's," said Phaeton.
"Yes, Derzhavin's, whoever he was," said Ned. "And this one of Jimmy's ought to have a horseshoe embroidered in gold thread on the corner of the satin. But those funny ladies with slant eyes and little club feet will have to do that. I suppose they haven't much else to keep them busy, as they're not able to do any housework. It might have a small gold horseshoe on each of the four corners, or it might have one big horseshoe surrounding the poem. Which do you think you would like best, Jimmy?"
"I've no choice; either would suit me," answered the poet.
"Good-bye, Jimmy!"
"Good-bye, boys!"
AN ALARM OF FIRE.
AN ALARM OF FIRE.
Every day some one of us called to see Jimmy. He was well taken care of, and got along nicely. Jack-in-the-Box lent him books, and each day a fresh bouquet was sent in by Miss Glidden.
One day Monkey Roe called on him.
"Jimmy," said he, "you know all about poetry, I suppose."
"I know something about it," said Jimmy. "I have written considerable."
"And are you well enough yet to undertake an odd job in it?"
"Oh, yes," said Jimmy. "A fellow doesn't have to be very well to write poetry."
"It isn't exactly writing poetry that I want done," said Monkey. "It's a very odd job, indeed. You might call it repairing poetry. Do poets ever repair poetry, as well as make it new?"
"I don't know," said Jimmy. "I should think it might be done in some cases."
"Well, now," said Monkey, "I have a broken poem. Some part of every line is gone. But the rhymes are all there, and many of the other words, and most of the beginnings of the lines. I thought a poet would know how to fill up all the blank spaces, and make it just as it was when it was whole."
"I don't know," said Jimmy, doubtfully. "It might be possible to do it, and it might not. I'll do what I can for you. Let me see it, if you have it with you."
Monkey pulled out of his pocket the mutilated poem of Holman's which Ned had pieced together, and, after smoothing it out, handed it to Jimmy.
As Jimmy looked it over, he turned every color which it is possible for an unhappy human countenance to assume, and then gave a heavy groan.
"Where did you get this, Monkey?" said he.
"Found it," said Monkey.
"Found it—impossible!" said Jimmy.
"Upon my word, I did find it, and just in the shape you see it now. But what of it?"
"Where did you find it?" said Jimmy.
"In Rogers's printing-office, kicking around on the floor. It seemed to be thrown away as waste paper; so I thought there was no harm in taking it. And when I read it, it looked to me like a curious sort of puzzle, which I thought would interest you. But you seem to take it very seriously."
"It's a serious matter," said Jimmy.
"No harm done, I hope," said Monkey.
"There may be," said Jimmy. "I can't tell. Some things about it I can't understand. I must ask you to let me keep this."
"If it's so very important," said Monkey, "it ought to be taken back to Phaeton Rogers, as it was in his office that I found it."
"No," said Jimmy; "it doesn't belong to him."
"Then you know something about it?" said Monkey.
"Yes, Monkey," said Jimmy, "I do know considerable about it. But it is a confidential matter entirely, and I shall have to insist on keeping this."
"All right!" said Monkey. "I'll take your word for it."
A few days after this, we were visiting Jack in his box, when, as he was turning over the leaves of his scrap-book to find something he wanted to show us, Phaeton exclaimed:
"What's that I saw?" and, turning back a leaf or two, pointed to an exact fac-simile of the mutilated poem. It had evidently been made by laying a sheet of oiled paper over the original, and carefully tracing the letters with a pencil.
"Oh, that," said Jack, "is something that Monkey Roe brought here. He said it was a literary puzzle, and wanted me to see if I could restore the lines. I've been so busy I haven't tried it yet."
Phaeton at once wrote a note to Monkey, asking him to bring back the original; whereupon Monkey called at the office and explained why he could not return it.
"All right! I'll see Jimmy about it myself," said Phaeton. "But have you made any other tracings of it besides the one Jack-in-the-Box has?"
"Only two others," said Monkey.
"Where are they?"
"One I have at home."
"And the other?"
"I sent it to Miss Glidden, with a note saying that, as I had heard she wrote poetry sometimes, I thought she might be interested in this poetical puzzle."
"Good gracious!" said Phaeton. "There's no use in trying to dip upthatspilled milk."
In those days there was an excitement and pleasure enjoyed by many boys, which was denied to Phaeton, Ned, and me. This was the privilege of running to fires. Nearly all large fires occurred in the night, and Mr. Rogers would not permit his boys to turn out from their warm beds and run at breathless speed to the other side of the town to see a building burned. So they had to lie still and possess their souls in impatience while they heard the clanging of the bells and the rattling of the engine, and perhaps saw through their window the lurid reflection on the midnight sky. There was no need for my parents to forbid me, since none of these things ever woke me.
Running to fires, at least in cities, is now a thing of the past. The alarm is communicated silently by telegraph to the various engine-houses, a team is instantly harnessed to the engine, and with two or three men it is driven to the fire, which is often extinguished without the inhabitants of the next street knowing that there has been a fire at all.
At the time of this story, the steam fire-engine had not been invented, and there were no paid fire departments. The hand-engine had a long pole on each side, called a brake, fastened to a frame that worked up and down like a pump-handle. When the brake on one side was down, that on the other was up. The brakes were long enough for nearly twenty men to stand in a row on each side and work them. No horses were used, but there was a long double rope, called a drag-rope, by which the men themselves drew the engine from its house to the fire. They always ran at full speed, and the two men who held the tongue, like the tongue of a wagon, had to be almost as strong as horses, to control and guide it as it went bumping over the pavement.
Each engine had a number and a name, and there was an organized company, of from forty to seventy men, who had it in charge, managed it at fires, drew it out on parade-days, took pride in it, and bragged about it.
The partiality of the firemen for their own engine and company was as nothing in comparison with that of the boys. Every boy in town had a violent affection for some one company, to the exclusion of all others. It might be because his father or his cousin belonged to that company, or because he thought it had the handsomest uniform (for no two companies were uniformed alike), or because it was first on the ground when his uncle's store was on fire, or because he thought it was the company destined to "wash" all others. Sometimes there would be no discoverable reason for his choice; yet the boy would be just as strong in his partisanship, and often his highest ambition would be to be able to run with the hose-cart of his favorite company. The hose was carried wound on a reel, trundled on two light wheels, which was managed by half a dozen boys, fifteen or sixteen years of age.
When a fire broke out, the bells of all the churches were rung; first slowly, striking one, two, three, four, etc., according to which district of the town the fire was in, and then clanging away with rapid strokes. Thus the whole town was alarmed, and a great many people besides the firemen ran to every fire. Firemen jumped from their beds at the first tap of a bell; or, if it was in the day-time, they instantly threw down their tools, left their work, and ran.
There was an intense rivalry as to which engine should first get to the fire, and which should pour the most effective stream of water upon it. But the highest pitch of excitement was reached when there was an opportunity to "wash." If the fire was too far from the water-supply to be reached through the hose of a single engine, one engine would be stationed at the side of the river or canal, or wherever the water was taken from, to pump it up and send it as far as it could through its hose, there discharging into the box of another engine, which, in turn, forced it another distance, through its own hose. If the first engine could send the water along faster than the second could dispose of it, the result would be that in a few minutes the box of the second would be overflowed, and she was then said to be "washed," which was considered a great triumph for the company that had washed her.
This sort of rivalry caused the firemen to do their utmost, and they did not always confine themselves to fair means. Sometimes, when an engine was in danger of being washed, some member of the company would follow the line of the other company's hose till he came to where it passed through a dark place, and then, whipping out his pocket-knife, would cut it open and run away. When there were not enough members of a company present to man the brakes, or when they were tired out, the foreman had the right to select men from among the bystanders, and compel them to take hold.
Monkey Roe was a born fireman. He never failed to hear the first tap of the bell, about ninety seconds after which he dropped from the casement of his window to the roof of the kitchen, thence to the roof of the back piazza, slid down a pillar, and was off for the fire, generally following in the wake of Red Rover Three, which was the company he sided with. It was entertaining to hear him relate his exciting adventures; but it was also somewhat exasperating.
"I don't see," said Ned, after Monkey had finished one of these thrilling narratives, "what Father means by never letting us run to a fire. How does he suppose he's going to make men of us, if we never begin to do anything manly?"
"Perhaps he doesn't think it is especially manly," said Phaeton.
"Not manly!" exclaimed Ned, in astonishment. "I should like to know what's more manly than to take the tongue of Big Six when there's a tremendous fire and they jump her all the way down State street. Or to stand on the engine and yell at the men, when Torrent Two is trying to wash her. Why, sometimes the foreman gets so excited that he batters his trumpet all to pieces, pounding on the brakes, to cheer his men."
"Knocking trumpets to pieces is very manly, of course," said Phaeton, smiling. "I didn't mean to say Father wouldn't consider it manly to be a fireman. What I should have said was, that perhaps he thought there were other ways to become manly. I should like to run to a fire once in a while; not for the sake of manliness, but to see the fun."
The more Ned thought about it, the more it seemed to him it was a continuous wrong. At last he spoke to his father about it, and set forth so powerfully the danger of growing up without becoming manly, that Mr. Rogers laughingly told the boys they might run to the very next fire.
The next thing was to count me in. The only difficulty to be overcome in my case was sleepiness. We canvassed many plans. Ned suggested a pistol fastened to the side of my window, with a string tied to the trigger and reaching to the ground, so that he or Phaeton could pull it on their way to the fire. The serious objection to this was that a shower would prevent the pistol from going off. It was also suggested that I have a bell, or tie the cord to a chair or something that could be pulled over and make a racket.
"The objection to all those things is," said Phaeton, "that they will disturb the whole family. Now, if you would make a rope-ladder, and hang it out of your window every night, one of us could climb up quietly, and speak to you. Then you could get out at the window and come down the ladder, instead of going through the house and waking up the people."
This suggestion struck us with great force; it doubled the anticipated romance. Under instructions from Phaeton, Ned and I made the ladder. In the store-room we found a bed-cord, which answered well for the sides. The rungs must be made of wood, and we had considerable difficulty in finding anything suitable. Any wood that we could have cut would be so soft that the rungs, to be strong enough, must have been very bulky. This was an objection, as I was to roll up the ladder in the day-time, and hide it under my bed. At last, Ned came over to tell me he had found just the thing, and took me to the attic of their house to see.
"There," said he, pointing to half a dozen ancient-looking chairs in a cobwebbed corner. "That is exactly what we want. The rounds of those old chairs are as tough as iron."
"Whose chairs are they?" said I.
"Oh, anybody's, nobody's," said Ned. "I suppose they are a hundred years old. And who's ever going to sit in such awkward-looking old things as those?"
It did seem preposterous to suppose that anybody would; so we went to work to take out the rounds at once. The old chairs were very strong, and after we had pulled at them in vain to spring them apart enough for the rounds to drop out, we got a saw and sawed off all the rounds an inch or two from the legs.
With these, the ladder was soon made, and I went home and drove two great spikes into the sill of my window, to hang it by.
I used to hang out the ladder every night, and take it in every morning. The first two nights I lay awake till almost daylight, momentarily expecting the stroke of the fire-bell. But it was not heard on those nights, nor the next, nor the next.
"It would be just like our luck," said Ned, "if there should never be another fire in this town."
"It would be lucky for the town," said Phaeton, who overheard him.
"Perhaps so," said Ned; "and yet I could point out some houses that would look a great deal better burned up. I wonder if it would do any good to hang a horseshoe over the door."
"What for?" said Phaeton. "To prevent them from burning?"
"Oh, no," said Ned. "I mean over the door of our office, to—to—well, not exactly to make those houses burn, but to bring us good luck generally."
It did seem a long time for the town to be without a conflagration, and one day Ned came into the office looking quite dejected.
"What do you think has happened now?" said he. "Just like our luck, only worse and worse."
"What is it?" said I.
"The whole fire department's going to smash."
"I shouldn't think you'd call that bad luck," said Phaeton. "For now when thereisa fire, it will be a big one, if there's no fire department to prevent it from spreading."
"But the best fun," said Ned, "is to see the firemen handle the fire, and to see Red Rover Three wash Cataract Eight. I saw her do it beautifully at annual inspection. What I want is a tremendous big fire, and plenty of engines to play on it."
The explanation of Ned's alarming intelligence was that the fire department had got into a quarrel with the common council, and threatened to disband. One company, who had rather a shabby engine-house, and were refused an appropriation for a new one, tied black crape on the brakes of their engine, drew it through the principal streets, and finally, stopping before the court-house yard, lifted the machine bodily and threw it over the fence. Then they threw their fireman hats after it, and quietly disbanded. This company had been known as Reliance Five. The incident frightened the common council into giving the other companies what they asked for; but there was never more a Number Five company in that city.
I had got pretty tired of hanging out my rope ladder every night, and rolling it up every morning, when at last the hour of destiny struck, as the majority of poets would say—that is, the court-house bell struck the third district, and steeple after steeple caught up the tune, till, in a few minutes, the whole air was full of the wild clangor of bells. At the same time, the throats of innumerable men and boys were open, and the word "Fire!" was pouring out from them in a continuous stream.
"Wake up, Ned!" said Phaeton. "Here it is at last, and it's a big one."
Ned bounded to his feet, looked out at the window, exclaimed "Oh, glory!" as he saw the lurid sky, and then began to get into his clothes with the utmost rapidity. Suddenly he stopped.
"Look here, Fay," said he. "This is Sunday night. I'm afraid Father won't let us go, after all."
"Perhaps not," said Phaeton.
"Then, what must we do?" said Ned.
"Do the best we can."
"The question is, whatisbest?" said Ned. "It is evident we ought to go out of the window, but it's too high from the ground."
"Then we must make a rope," said Phaeton.
"What can we make it of?"
"The bedclothes, of course."
"That's a splendid idea!—that saves us," said Ned, and he set about tying the sheets together.
Before Phaeton was dressed, Ned had made the rope and cast it out of the window, first tying one end to the bedpost, and sliding down to the ground, made off, without waiting for his brother.
He came straight to my ladder, and had his foot on the first rung, when a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder.
"So you're the one he sends in, are you?" said a deep voice, and Ned looked up into the face of a policeman. "I'd rather have caught the old one," he continued, "but you'll do. I've been watching this burglar arrangement for two hours. And by the way, I must have some of it for evidence; the old one may take it away while I'm disposing of you." And he turned and with his pocket-knife cut off about a yard of my ladder, taking which in one hand and Ned in the other, he hurried away to the police-station.