Now, as he held the reconstructed round in its place in the chair, it just fitted, and there was sufficient overlap on the stubs to make a secure fastening possible. Near each end there was a small vacant space, into which the pieces that had been cut out to make the notches in the stubs exactly fitted.
Phaeton procured a pot of glue, and fastened the pieces together and in place. To give the work greater strength, he carefully bored a hole through the stub and the overlapping end of the round, put in a piece of large copper wire, a trifle longer than the hole, and, holding a large hammer against one end, gently pounded on the other with a tack-hammer, till he had flattened it out into a rivet-head; then reversed the hammers, and made a head on the other end.
Finally, as he had no vise or hand-screws, he placed a strip of wood on each side of the mended round, tied a piece of strong cord in a loose hanging-loop around each end, put a stick through, and twisted them up tight,—the sticks resting against the legs of the chair, which prevented the cords from untwisting. He thus made what a surgeon would call a couple of tourniquets, to hold his work firmly together while the glue was hardening.
Ned and I had watched all these operations with intense interest.
"I tell you what 'tis," said Ned, "Fay sometimes makes mistakes when he goes sailing off in the realms of imagination with his inventive genius, like that fire-extinguisher; but when you come down to a real thing that's got to be fixed, and nobody else can fix it, he's right there every time."
Phaeton treated the other three rounds of the chair in the same manner, and then set it away for the glue to harden. When that had taken place, he took off the tourniquets, scraped and sand papered the rounds, so as to leave no unevenness at the edges of the pieces, and then varnished them.
Waiting for that varnish to dry was one of the severest trials of patience we ever endured. But it was dry at last, and of course Ned and I were proud to go with Phaeton when he carried home his work.
He left the chair in the hall, where Ned and I also remained, and went in first to speak to his aunt.
"Seems to me things are mightily changed," said Ned, in a humiliated tone, "when Fay walks in to see Aunt Mercy, and I stay outside. But I suppose it's all right."
We heard his aunt say to Phaeton:
"I'd given up looking for you. I thought you'd find you couldn't do it; but I know you tried hard, poor boy, and I'm just as much obliged to you."
Presently Phaeton came out and got the chair, and this time we went in with him.
He set it down before his astonished aunt, and carefully explained to her the whole process, showing her that not a splinter of any but the original wood had been used.
That cobbled-up old chair went straight to Aunt Mercy's heart, and seated Phaeton in her affections forever. She made us stay and take tea with her, and after tea we took home the other five chairs, to be similarly treated; Phaeton marching first with two on his head, then Ned with two more, and I bringing up the rear with the odd one on my head.
RINGS, SCISSORS, AND BOOTS.
RINGS, SCISSORS, AND BOOTS.
Phaeton's fame as an inventor and general engineer was growing rapidly among the boys. They had great faith in his powers, and in some of them a similar inventive spirit was awakened, though none of them accomplished much. They very commonly came to consult him when they thought they had an idea.
One day Holman came to the printing-office when we were all there,—including Jimmy, who, with the help of Wilson's "Treatise on Punctuation," was learning to read proof,—and said he thought he knew how we could make a fortune.
"That's a good thing to know," said Phaeton.
"But I can't be quite sure that I do know it," said Holman, "till I talk with you about some parts of the scheme."
"I shall be glad to help you if I can," said Phaeton.
"I don't care to make any secret of it," continued Holman, "because, if it can be carried out, we shall have to make a sort of joint-stock company, and take in several of the boys."
"Will it make us a fortune apiece?" said Ned, "or only one fortune, to be divided up among the company?"
"That depends on how much you consider a fortune," answered Holman. "The main thing I want to know, Fay, is this: whether it is possible to invent some way of going under water, and working there, without a big, heavy diving-bell."
"I think," said Phaeton, "that other and lighter apparatus has been invented already; but if not, I should think it could be."
"Then we are all right," said Holman. "I know where the fortune is,—there's no uncertainty about that,—but it's under water a few feet, and it won't do to go for it with any large and noticeable machinery."
"Fay can easily invent a pocket diving-bell," said Ned.
"Do you know the history of Venice?" said Holman.
Phaeton said he knew the outlines of her history, Jimmy said he knew about the Bucentaur and the brass horses, but Ned and I confessed total ignorance.
"I've just been reading it," said Holman, "and that's where I got my idea. You must know that when Venice was a rich republic, the Doge—who was the same as a president or mayor—used to go out once a year in a big row-boat called the Bucentaur, with banners and streamers, and a brass band, and a lot of jolly fellows, and marry the Adriatic Sea, as they called it. That is, he threw a splendid wedding-ring into the water, and then I suppose they all gave three cheers, and fired a salute, and had some lemonade, and perhaps made speeches that were a little tedious, like those we have to listen to at school on examination-day. At any rate, he threw in the ring, and that's the important thing."
"What was all that for?" said Ned.
"Jack-in-the-Box told me," said Holman, "it was because the Venetians were a sea-going people, and all their wealth came from commerce, and so this ceremony signified their devotion to the sea. But, as I was saying, this was done regularly every year for six hundred and twenty years; and what makes it lucky for us is, that it was always done at the same spot—the Porto di Lido, a channel through that long, narrow island that lies a little off shore."
"I don't see where the luck for us comes in," said I. "If the Doges had been our grandfathers, and bequeathed us the rings instead of throwing them away, there might be some luck in that."
"Wait till you see what I'm coming to," said Holman. "The Adriatic is a shallow sea,—I've looked up all the facts,—and my idea is, that we might as well have those rings as for them to lie there doing nobody any good."
"How much are they worth?" said Ned.
"You can calculate it for yourself," said Holman. "As I said before, the ceremony was repeated every year for six hundred and twenty years. Of course, we might not get quite all of them—throw off the twenty; there are six hundred rings. They must have been splendid ones, and were probably worth at least a hundred dollars apiece. There's sixty thousand dollars, all in a huddle in that one spot."
"But don't you suppose," said Ned, "that after a while those cunning old Doges would stop throwing in solid gold rings with real diamonds on them, and use brass ones washed with gold, and paste diamonds?"
"I think not," said Holman; "for they didn't have to pay for them—the bill was footed by the Common Council. And they couldn't try that without getting caught. For of course the ring would be on exhibition a week or so in the window of some fashionable jewelry store, and the newspapers would tell that it was furnished by the celebrated establishment of So-and-So."
"But don't you suppose," said Phaeton, "that as soon as it was dark, some fellow went out quietly in a little skiff, and dove for the rings? Some of those Italians are wonderful divers."
"I think not," said Holman; "for the ring would be of no use to a Venetian; he wouldn't dare offer it for sale."
"How do you propose to get them?"
"My plan is, first, to invent some kind of diving apparatus that is small, and can be packed in a valise; then, for us to save up all the money we can get, till we have enough to pay the travelling expenses of two of us from here to Venice. We could go cheap in a sailing-vessel. Suppose you and I went, Fay; we'd ask the Venetians about the fishing, and buy or hire some tackle, and put a lunch in our valise, with the diving apparatus, and get a skiff and start off. I've planned the very course. When you leave the city you steer a little east of north-east; row about four miles, and there you are."
"That's easy enough," said I,—"only a little over half the distance from here to Charlotte, which we've all rowed scores of times."
"When we get there," Holman continued, "we'll fish a while to lull suspicion, and then I'll quietly get into the diving apparatus and drop into the water, with the valise in my hand. It wouldn't take me long to scoop up those rings, once I got amongst them; then, of course, Fay would haul me up, and we'd hurry home and divide. We could easily turn the rings into money."
"I should think we might get more for them as curiosities than as old gold," said I.
"That's a good idea," said Holman.
"But we mustn't be in a hurry to sell themall," said Jimmy the Rhymer. "When a fellow grows up and gets engaged, one of those would be an awful romantic thing to give to the lady."
"I know a better way than that to get them, though," said Ned.
"Let's hear."
"Just invent some kind of magnet that'll stick to gold, as a common magnet sticks to iron, and put a good strong one in the butt end of your fish-pole; then, when the Venetians were looking, you could be fishing; and when they were not looking, you could drop the big end of the pole into the water, poke around a little on the bottom, and haul up a ring. Maybe sometimes you'd haul up a dozen at once, all sticking together like a cluster of grapes."
Whether Holman was in earnest, or was only testing the credulity of us younger boys, I never knew; but we took it all in good faith, and went home that night to dream of loading our fingers with rings, and spending sixty thousand dollars divided into five shares. However Holman may have been jesting in this scheme for acquiring a fortune for himself, it was not many days after this when he actually entered upon a rather ludicrous performance to get a little money for somebody else.
There were two Red Rovers in our town—in fact, there were three. The reader has already made the acquaintance of the fire-company and engine known as Red Rover Three. A man who had once belonged to that company, but was now past the prime of life, and honorably retired from the service, made his living by grinding knives and scissors.
But he was too much of a Yankee to go about with a wheel in a little frame strapped upon his back, and a bell in his hand, to be rung monotonously, from street to street. He built a peculiar carriage,—a square framework, about four feet high and six feet long,—running on four large wheels, wherein was a bewildering mass of machinery. Standing behind it, and laying his hands upon two great brass knobs, he walked slowly through the streets, pushing it before him in a dignified manner, to the awe of the boys and the wonderment of the whole town. It went with an easy motion, the wheels making only a subdued and gentle noise. Surmounting it in front was a large bell, which was struck at solemn and impressive intervals. This apparatus both increased his patronage and elevated the dignity of the profession. He had no vulgar and noisy cry, soliciting custom in a half-intelligible jargon. People who wanted their scissors ground came to the doors with them when they heard his bell. Then the wheels of the chariot stopped, the charioteer lifted his hat in salutation, and the negotiation seemed like a matter of friendly favor, rather than bargain and pay.
In order to grind, he opened a little gate in the rear of the machine, stepped inside, closed the gate behind him, and seated himself upon a small shelf which was fastened to the gate. His feet were then placed upon two pedals, and the machinery began to move.
Five small grindstones, of different sizes and fineness, revolved before him. At his right hand was a little anvil; at his left was a vise; and under this was a box of small tools.
About the middle of the machine, on the top, was a small figure of a Scottish Highlander, with bag-pipes under his arm. The bag—which was of painted tin—was filled with water; and a plug, withdrawn from the longest of the pipes, allowed the water to trickle down upon the knife-wheel. Scissors were generally ground on a dry wheel. When the machinery was in motion, the pipes played something, intended for music, between a squeak and a whistle; so that when he was travelling, the bell rang, and when he was grinding, the pipes played.
On one of the front corners was a little bronze bust of Washington, and on the other was one of Franklin; between them was a clock, with a marine movement.
The whole frame and running gear were painted a bright red, and garnished with shining brass ornaments. The man called his machine Red Rover, after the beloved engine with which he used to run, and the name appeared on the side in brass letters. It seemed as if he must spend the greater part of his earnings on its improvement and embellishment. The man himself, whose hair was broadly streaked with gray, was called "The Old Red Rover," and we never knew him by any other name.
He lived in a little bit of a house by the canal; and the machine, which was always kept in shining order, had to be taken in-doors every night. How he managed to find room in the house for himself, his wife, and his four children, besides the machine, we could never imagine—and it was none of our business. That little house by the canal was as much the Old Red Rover's castle as the palaces that you and I live in, dear reader, are ours.
I think it was a week after our conversation concerning the Doge's rings, when, one Saturday, Ned and I heard the bell ring, and saw the Red Rover coming up State street, with Isaac Holman propelling it, instead of its owner.
This was rather astonishing, and, of course, an immediate explanation was demanded.
"Why, you see," said Holman, "Mother had been for a long time wishing the Old Red Rover would come around, for every pair of scissors in the house was as dull as a Dutch grammar. At last she got tired of waiting, and so I went to his house with them. I found he was laid up with rheumatism, and hadn't been out for five weeks. It looked to me as if the family were on short rations, and I began to think what I could do for them. I thought the best thing would be, to take the machine and spend the day in going around grinding scissors, and at night take home the money to the Old Red Rover."
"Yes," said Ned, "that's the very best thing; it's more fun than anything else you could have thought of."
"He was rather afraid to let me try it," continued Holman, "but Mrs. The-Old-Red-Rover was greatly pleased with the idea, and soon persuaded him. 'Be very tender with her—she's the pride of my life,' said he, as we rolled it out of the door; and he didn't mean his wife—he meant the machine."
We had often kept this machine company as it passed through the streets in charge of its owner, and it was doubly interesting now when one of our own number was allowed to run it. So, of course, we went along with Holman on his benevolent tour. Other boys also joined us, and the unusually large crowd attracted attention. We were all ready to explain the situation to people who stood in the doors or looked out at the windows, and the result was that Holman had plenty of work.
Soon after turning into West street, he began to go much more slowly. At the house where Miss Glidden had been living since the fire, nobody appeared at door or window. It happened that right here something got out of order in the machine—at least, Holman said it did, and he had to stop stock-still and tinker at it a long time; but I was not able to see what was out of order.
At last Miss Glidden appeared at the door, and inquired what was going on. Monkey Roe ran up the steps and informed her.
"It's entirely out of mercy," said he, "and you'd be doing a benevolent thing to give him as many scissors as possible to sharpen."
Miss Glidden invited him in, and soon collected three pairs of scissors and a pair of shears, which she requested him to take out and have ground for her.
"Is this all you have?" said he, in a tone signifying that he considered it a very small crop.
"There may be more," said she. "Biddy"—to the servant—"bring here any scissors you have that need grinding."
Biddy brought from the kitchen a pair that were used to trim lamps.
"Is this all, Biddy?" said Monkey.
"I don't know—I'll see, sir," said Biddy; and Monkey followed her to the kitchen.
Next to it he found a sort of combined work-room and store-room, the door of which stood open, and, looking over its contents, soon discovered a pair of tinsmith's shears, a pair of sheep-shears, a drawing-knife, a cooper's adze, and a rusty broad-axe, all of which, with the family carving-knife, brought by Biddy, he added to the collection, and came down the steps with them in his arms.
"Here, Holman," said he, "Miss Glidden wants you to sharpen these few things for the good cause."
"Boni cani calcei!—Good gracious!" exclaimed Holman, "does she think I'm Hercules?"
"No," said Monkey, in a low tone, "but I guess she thinks you're Her—admirer."
"But I suppose it must be done," Isaac added, not hearing Monkey's remark. And he took off his jacket and went to work manfully.
The scissors were soon disposed of, as were also the carving-knife and the drawing-knife; but the other articles were somewhat troublesome. About all he could do with the broad-axe was to grind off the rust that completely coated it. The tinsmith's shears were a heavy job, and the sheep-shears completely baffled him, till he gave up trying to sharpen them on the grindstone, and, finding a file in the tool-box, applied that to their edges, against the solemn protest of Monkey Roe, who declared it would take the temper out of the steel.
"And when Miss Glidden sees them, it may bring her temper out too," he added.
"Can't help it," said Holman, "and now the lot's finished; you may take it in and collect the pay."
He had just begun to study book-keeping, and, opening a little drawer in the machine, he found a scrap of paper, and made out this bill:
Monkey took this and the armful of cutlery, and carried them in to Miss Glidden, who was somewhat surprised, as she had not known exactly what he was about. However, she laughingly paid the bill, and he carefully piled the articles on the parlor table, and came away.
I observed that Holman put the dollar into the drawer where he had put all the other money, but the cent he put into his pocket. Then he took another cent from another pocket, and threw it into the drawer.
We had travelled perhaps half a mile farther, and Holman had ground something like forty pairs of scissors in all, when we were joined by Phaeton, who watched him as he ground the next pair.
"Is that the way you've ground them all?" said he, when it was finished.
"Yes, of course—why?" said Holman.
"Because if you have, you've ruined every pair you've touched," said Phaeton. "Don't you know that scissors must be ground on the edge of the blade, not on the side, like a knife? If you grind away the sides, the blades can't touch each other, and so can't cut at all."
"I declare, I believe that's so," said Holman. "I thought it was kind of queer that none of the scissors would really cut anything; but I was sure I had made them sharp, and so supposed they were all old, worn-out things that wouldn't cut, any way. I guess you'd better take my place, Fay."
Phaeton declined to do this, but went along as confidential adviser.
We wound about through a great number of streets, the accompanying crowd of boys being sometimes larger and sometimes smaller, and ground a great many knives and scissors.
On turning a corner into a by-street that bore the proud name of Fairfax, we came suddenly upon Jimmy the Rhymer. He was sitting on a bowlder, with a quantity of printed bills over his left arm, a paste-brush in his right hand, and a small bucket of paste on the ground beside him. He looked tired and melancholy.
The outward situation was soon explained. A man who had kept a cobbler's shop for many years, but had recently enlarged it into something like a shoe-store, had employed us to print some bills to be posted up on the fences and dead-walls, announcing the event. They began with the startling legend, printed in our largest type,
GO IT BOOTS!
GO IT BOOTS!
which was followed by an account of the new store and new goods, the favorite rhetorical figure being hyperbole. Looking about for some one to post them who would do it more cheaply than the regular bill-poster of the town, he had thought of Jimmy the Rhymer, who accepted the job because he wanted to earn a little money.
"Are you sick, Jimmy?" said Phaeton, observing his dejection.
"Not in body," said Jimmy, "but I am sick in mind—sick at heart."
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Look at that," said Jimmy, slowly raising his hand and pointing at one of the bills which he had just posted on a barn-door. "Go it Boots!"—he quoted it very slowly. "What do I care about going it boots? I couldn't go it boots if I wanted to. There is no more going it boots for me in this world."
"I don't quite understand you," said Phaeton.
"I mean," said Jimmy, "that my soul yearns for poetry—for the beautiful in nature and art. And it disgusts me to think of spending my time in spreading such literature as this through the world."
"That isn't very complimentary to us," said Ned. "We spent considerable of our time in printing it."
"I suppose you get paid for it," said Phaeton.
"Of course," said Jimmy, "or I shouldn't do it at all."
"Then it seems to me," said Phaeton, "you might look upon it cheerfully as only so much drudge-work done to purchase leisure and opportunity for the work you delight in. You know a great many famous men have been obliged to get through the world in that way."
"Yes, cheer up," said Monkey Roe. "Look at us: we're having lots of fun over drudgier work than yours. Come along with us, and we'll make one circus of the whole thing—two entertainments under one canvas, as the bills say. Holman has plenty of help, so I'll be your assistant."
And he took the brush and paste-bucket, while Jimmy still carried the bills, and we all moved on together.
As Jimmy walked beside the machine, he and Holman seemed to resume some former conversation.
"Can't you make up your mind to do it, if I double the price?" said Holman.
"On the contrary," said Jimmy, "I've made up my mind that Iwon'tdo it atanyprice."
"Why not?" asked Holman.
"For two reasons," answered Jimmy. "One is, that I don't think it's exactly honest to write such things for anybody else to pass off as his own."
"And the other?" said Holman.
"The other is," said Jimmy, speaking much lower, but still so that I who was next to him could hear, "and I may as well tell you plainly, Isaac,—the other is, that I have some hopes in that direction myself, and if I write anything more for her, I'll send it as my own."
"You?" said Holman, in astonishment.
"Certainly," said Jimmy, with great coolness, as if he felt himself master of the situation, "and I think my claim is better than yours. Whatever there is between you and her—if there is anything—is entirely of your seeking. But in my case it's all of her seeking; she sent me flowers every day when I was laid up."
"That's nothing—that doesn't mean anything," said Holman.
"If it doesn't, then I've read the poets all wrong," said Jimmy.
"Poetæ apis suspensi!—poets be hanged!" exclaimed Isaac, and then gave a prolonged whistle, which closed the conversation.
Phaeton, who was next to me, and also overheard, opened his mouth as if to say something to Jimmy, but checked himself. Yet he was so full of his idea that he was obliged to utter it somehow, and so whispered it in my ear:
"If it comes to that, my claim is even better than his, for she gave flowers to me when I was not an object of pity."
The way Monkey Roe did that job created an epoch in bill-posting.
We passed the office of a veterinary surgeon, who had the skeleton of a horse, mounted on a board, for a sign; and before anybody knew what he was about, Monkey whipped off one of the bills from Jimmy's arm, and pasted it right across the skeleton's ribs.
We came to a loaded coal-cart, broken down in the middle of the street by the crushing of a wheel, and he posted one on that.
We passed a tobacco-shop, in front of which stood a life-size wooden statue of a bare-legged and plaided Highlander; and Monkey pasted a Go it Boots! on his naked shin.
We met a beggar who went about on two crutches, but who was known to be an impostor; and after he had passed us, one of the bills was attached to his coat-tail, like the cheapest kind of April-fool.
We passed a windmill that had been put up as an experiment, and had failed; and Monkey posted a bill on each of the sails—revolving it enough to bring each of them near the ground in turn—and one on the door.
There was an omnibus-horse that had fallen by the roadside that morning, and Monkey unfeelingly pasted a Go it Boots! on his poor, dead back.
On whatever he saw that couldn't go it at all, he was sure to fasten this advice to go it boots. I think Monkey was a very ironical boy.
"There, Jimmy," said he, as he disposed of the last bill, "you see it's only necessary to approach your work in the right spirit to make it a pleasure, as the school-master says. But I'll tell you what to do, if you don't want to spread this sort of literature. The next time Dunderson, or any other cobbler, wants to get out a bill, you write it for him, and put it all in poetry. Then it'll be a delight to post it."
Jimmy said he'd consider it.
About five o'clock in the afternoon, when we were all pretty tired, we returned the Red Rover safely to its home, and Holman gladdened Mrs. The-Old-Red-Rover with more money than she had seen in a long time, for which she was very grateful. As we turned away, we met their eldest boy, Johnny The-Old-Red-Rover, bringing a basketful of bark which he had cut from the oaken logs in the saw-mill yard. Before we were out of sight of the house, the smoke curled out of the little chimney, and I've no doubt they celebrated the day with a joyful supper.
As we passed the Box, we stopped to speak with Jack. He was flagging an express train that was creeping slowly into the city, retarded by a hot box. When it had reached the crossing, it stopped entirely, and most of the passengers thrust their heads out at the windows. One of these heads came out in such a way as to be exactly face-to-face with Jack, the interval between them being less than a yard.
Jack gave a piercing shriek, and fell to the ground.
Phaeton and I ran to him, and picked him up.
"He's in a fit," said I.
"No," said Phaeton, "I think he has only fainted. Bring water."
I found a pitcher-full in the Box, and we poured it upon his face, which brought him to.
He looked about in a bewildered manner for a moment, then seemed to recollect himself, and turned toward the track. But the train had passed on.
"Phaeton," said he, "will you please stand here and flag a special freight train that will come along in about ten minutes?"
"Certainly, with pleasure," said Phaeton, receiving the flag.
"And after that has passed, haul down the red ball and run up the white one; then turn that second switch and lock it."
"All right!" said Phaeton. "I understand."
Jack then picked up his cap, and started on a run, crossing the public square diagonally, evidently taking the shortest route to the passenger station.
A TEA PARTY.
A TEA PARTY.
The mending of the chairs had entirely changed Aunt Mercy's demeanor toward us.
"I've given you money to make a great many muddles," said she; "but, so far as I can learn, this is the first successful muddle you've produced. However, this is fine enough to make up for all. And I want you both to come and take tea with me Saturday evening."
Phaeton and Ned not only accepted the invitation with thanks, but asked to have me included in it.
"Certainly," said Aunt Mercy; "it wouldn't do to separate you and him. And if you have any other very particular friends among the boys, bring them along too. Only let me know how many are coming."
Phaeton said he should like to invite Jimmy the Rhymer.
"Invite Jimmy," said Aunt Mercy.
"And Monkey Roe is awful lively company," said Ned.
"Invite Monkey," said Aunt Mercy.
"If we're going to have so many," said Phaeton, "I shouldn't like to leave out Isaac Holman."
"It isn't exactly a spelling-match, but choose away," said Aunt Mercy. "It's your turn now, Edmund Burton."
Ned chose Charley Garrison, and then Phaeton chose Patsy Rafferty, and after some discussion they determined to let the list end there.
"You haven't mentioned a single girl," said Aunt Mercy.
"Sister May is too little," said Ned; "and besides that, I don't much believe in girls, any way."
"That's complimentary to your mother and me," said his aunt.
"I don't think we know any girls well enough to ask them," said Phaeton,—"unless it may be one," and he blushed a little.
"One will do," said Aunt Mercy; and so it was agreed that she should invite Miss Glidden, whom she called "a very sweet girl."
The evening that had been designated was the evening of the day recorded in the last chapter, and not one of the eight boys included in the invitation forgot it.
We gravitated together, after a series of whistlings, and all went to Aunt Mercy's in a crowd.
When we arrived at the house, Phaeton went up the steps first, and rang the bell. There was no immediate response, and while we were waiting for it, Ned and Monkey Roe, who had lagged behind a little, came up.
"Oh, pshaw!" said Ned, "don't fool around out here. Probably the girl's cooking something that she can't leave right away; but Aunty expects us—come in, boys," and he opened the door and led us into the hall.
"I ought to know the way around this house pretty well," he continued. "Here's the place to hang your caps," and he pointed out the hat-rack under the slope of the stairs.
With a soft, pattering noise, the eight caps almost instantly found lodgment on the pegs, some being thrown with great precision by the boys who were hindmost over the heads of the others.
"Now follow me, boys; I'll introduce you to Aunt Mercy; I'm perfectly at home here," said Ned, and throwing open the parlor door, he ushered us in there as unceremoniously as he had admitted us to the house.
The parlor was beautifully though not brilliantly lighted by an argand lamp. Aunt Mercy was sitting on the sofa, and beside her—"awful near together," as Ned expressed it—sat a tall gentleman, with a full beard and a sun-browned face.
"Why! What does this mean?" said Aunt Mercy, as soon as she could get her breath.
Ned was considerably abashed, and had fallen back so that he was almost merged in the crowd of boys now huddled near the door. But he mustered courage enough to say:
"We've come to tea."
Phaeton stepped forward, and relieved the situation:
"You remember, Aunty, you asked us to come to tea this evening, and bring our friends. But, perhaps now it isn't convenient for you. We can come some other day just as well."
"Really," said his aunt, "I made preparations for you to-day, and it's perfectly convenient; but in the last two hours I had totally forgotten it. You see I have an unexpected visitor."
Phaeton introduced those of the boys whom his aunt had never seen before, and she then introduced us all to Mr. Burton. She had not the least trouble in remembering Phaeton's name, and she called Mr. Burton's attention especially to Ned as his namesake.
"Is this the Mr. Burton who was dead long ago?" said Ned.
"The very same one," said his aunt, laughing. "But he has suddenly come to life again, after many strange adventures, which he has just been telling me. I must ask him to tell them over again for you. But did none of you call for Miss Glidden?"
We all looked blank.
"Then," said she, "Fayette must go after her now."
Phaeton took his cap and started at once. Three of the boys kindly offered to go with him, fearing he would be lonesome, but he said he didn't mind going alone.
While he was gone, we made the acquaintance of Mr. Burton very rapidly. He seemed a good deal like Jack-in-the-Box in one respect—he liked boys. In Ned he appeared to be particularly interested. Several times over he asked him how old he was, and how tall he was. I suppose Ned seemed to him to be a sort of visible measure of the time that had been lost out of his life; for he must have disappeared from the knowledge of his friends about the time that Ned was born.
Soon after Phaeton returned with Miss Glidden, tea was announced.
Both during the meal and afterward, Mr. Burton did the greater part of the talking, and his conversation consisted mainly of a running account of his adventures since he left his home, more than a dozen years before. I give the story as nearly as possible in his own words. It was of a nature to seize upon a boy's fancy; but I fear it has not lain in my memory all these years without losing many of its nicest points.
"I was a tall and slender boy," said Mr. Burton,—"so slender that my parents feared I would become consumptive, and I reached the age of twenty without improving much in that respect. Our family physician said a long sea-voyage might build me up and make a strong man of me, and as my uncle owned a large interest in a whaler then fitting out, at Nantucket, for a cruise in the North Pacific, it was arranged that I should make the voyage. By my own choice, I shipped as a common sailor before the mast, as it seemed to me that was the only way to get the full benefit of the experience.
"I need not tell you the story of the tedious passage around Cape Horn, against head winds and through rainy seas. You have all read it dozens of times. The greenest hand on board was an accomplished sailor by the time we reached the whaling-ground. We had a prosperous cruise, and I calculated that though the hundred and twenty-fifth lay, which was to be my share, would not make me rich, it would give me considerable pocket-money when we got home.
"When we turned our prow southward for the long homeward voyage, our troubles began. Week after week we labored against heavy gales and head seas. It was many months since we had been in port, and we were not well equipped for so long a strain. At last, when we were barely out of the tropics, a terrific and long-continued easterly gale struck us, and drove us helplessly before it. Just before daylight, one morning, she struck heavily, with a shock that sent one of the masts overboard. Dawn showed us that we were wrecked on a lonely island. As nearly as the captain could calculate, this was in south latitude 27° and longitude 110° west.
"We judged that the island must be about a dozen miles long. Three volcanic peaks rose in plain sight, to a height of more than a thousand feet, and between their branching ridges were green valleys sloping down to the shore. If you ever see an old cart-wheel, with half its spokes broken or missing, which has lain upon the ground till the grass has sprung up through it, you may look upon it as a rude representation of the appearance that island presented from the sea. The hub would be the cone of an extinct volcano, the weather-beaten wood being about the color of the volcanic rock, and the remaining spokes the irregular, sharp ridges that radiated from it, some of them reaching to the water's edge and others stopping half-way.
"An hour or two after daylight, we found there was no possibility of saving the ship, though the storm was over. We launched the boats, but could make no landing on that side of the island, which was steep and rocky. So we pulled southward, and through a channel where two rocky islets lay off the south-east point, and soon came to a pretty bay, where we made a landing.
"Looking at the shore through the misty dawn, we had seen what looked like giants standing on the flat roofs of their houses and watching us. But they showed no signs of life, and the captain at length made them out, through his glass, to be images of some sort. We afterward had abundant opportunity to examine them, and found them to be stone statues of colossal size. What we had taken for houses were three platforms of solid masonry, built on ground that sloped toward and overlooked the sea. Four of these great statues had originally stood on each of the platforms, but most of the twelve were now overthrown. We measured one that lay on the ground, and found it was fifteen feet high and six feet across the shoulders.
"They were cut in gray stone, and each statue that was still standing had on its head an immense red stone, smoothly cut to the shape of a cylinder, at least a yard high,—as if it wore what you call a band-box hat, but with no brim. We afterward found there were great numbers of these statues in various places on the island, though mostly on the east side. Few of them seemed to be finished. It was as if the sculptor had taken the rough blocks and begun work at the top, and, after bringing out the statue perhaps as far down as the waist, had left it in that condition, and begun on the next one. The largest one we found was over twenty-five feet high.
"It was two hours after our landing before we saw any living being. Then we saw three children peeping at us from the top of a little hill. When we discovered them, they scampered away, and pretty soon a crowd of people appeared, led by an old man whose face was painted white, and who carried a long spear.
"The captain made them understand that we were cast away, and wished to be taken care of. They led us along the shore, to the entrance of one of those green and beautiful valleys, where we found a village and were made welcome. They kept saying 'Taya, taya, which we found meant 'friends,' and gave us a feast of yams, bananas, and roast chicken. The next day they went through a ceremony which we understood to mean that they formally adopted us into their tribe, and considered us their brothers. They also exchanged names with us. The man who adopted my name (Burton) called it Obuttee, and his which he gave me in exchange was Moaneena."
Mr. Burton gave a considerable account of his adventures on the island, which we found very entertaining; but I cannot remember it with sufficient accuracy to attempt repeating it. As we were walking home, Monkey Roe pointed out what he thought were improbabilities in the narrative too great to be believed,—especially the account of the gigantic stone statues, which he said could not possibly have been made by people who had no iron tools. I was inclined to share Monkey's incredulity at the time; but I now know that Mr. Burton told the truth, and that he must have been cast away on Easter Island, where Roggeween, the Dutch navigator, had discovered the mysterious statuary more than a century before.
"That little island," he continued, "was our home for nearly ten years. It is far out of the usual track of ships, and as good water is very scarce upon it, there is little temptation for them to go out of their way to visit it. We had two small boats, but the coast of South America was more than two thousand miles distant.
"At last a merchantman, driven out of her course by stress of weather, came to anchor off the western shore, and sent in a boat, the crew of which were naturally astonished at being greeted by white men.
"We were taken off, and carried to Melbourne, where every man took his own way of getting home. About half of them went to the newly discovered gold-fields. I got a chance after a while to ship before the mast in a vessel going to Calcutta.
"There I made the acquaintance of a young man who, I found, was from my native town; though I had not known him at home, as he was nearly, or quite, ten years my junior. His name was Roderick Ayr. He offered to lend me money, but I would take it only on condition that he receive my watch as security, to be redeemed when we reached home. It was a splendid watch, but had long since ceased to keep time, for want of cleaning.
"Mr. Ayr had been educated at one of the older colleges, knew something of engineering, had studied law, had spent a year in journalism, and had done a little something in literature—in fact, I think he told me he had published a small volume of poems, or essays. His talents were so varied that he found it difficult to settle down to one occupation; and so he had made a voyage to India, merely to see something of the world, while he was growing a little older and finding out what he was best fitted for.
"He was about to return home as a passenger, when I found an opportunity to ship before the mast in the 'Emily Wentworth,' bound for Boston. To keep me company, he shipped in the same capacity.
"We passed down the Hoogly, and wound through the horrible swamps and jungles of the Sunderbunds, where tigers and crocodiles were an every-day sight, till our pilot left us, on a sunny July morning, with the deep blue waters of the Bay of Bengal before us, and a gentle breeze from the north-east.
"Two days later we were struck by a cyclone, and the vessel was reduced to a helpless wreck. Everybody on board seemed paralyzed with terror, except Ayr and the captain, and the captain was soon swept away by a heavy sea. Three of the men, headed by the second mate,—a fellow named Hobbes,—managed to launch the only boat that had not been stove, threw into it a keg of water, a few provisions, and the charts and instruments, and were about to pull away and leave the rest of us to our fate, when Ayr ordered them back. As they paid no attention to him, he sprang into the boat and took Hobbes by the throat. Hobbes drew his knife, but as quick as lightning Ayr gave him a blow that sent him overboard. One of the sailors caught him and drew him in, and then they all consented to return to the deck. The next sea swept away the boat.
"Ayr was now recognized as commander, by virtue of his natural superiority, and the first mate, a well-meaning but forceless man, had the good sense to resign his authority to the only one who could do anything for us—if anything could be done at all.
"With a few volunteers to assist him, Ayr rigged and launched a raft, upon which nine of us embarked. The remainder of the crew had already been lost, or were afraid to leave the vessel, and some had lashed themselves to her spars. Ayr was the last to leave her. He jumped overboard, swam to the raft, cut the hawser, and we drifted away from the hulk, which heeled and went down before we were out of sight.
"The raft floated low, and half the time we were up to our necks in water, for all that day and all night heavy seas broke over her. Ayr, who was a powerful swimmer, was swimming about the raft the greater part of the time, sometimes tightening the fastenings where she threatened to break apart, and often saving and hauling on board again some poor wretch who had been swept off. But every few hours a man would be carried away whom Ayr could not reach, and our little company was continually growing smaller.
"As for myself, I was rather a poor swimmer, and either the exposure, or some disease that I had previously contracted, caused an uncomfortable swelling and puffiness in my fingers and toes. I took off, with some difficulty, a ring which I had worn for a dozen years, as it now begun to hurt me, and slipped it upon Ayr's finger, asking him to keep it for me till some happier time.
"In the afternoon of the second day, it became evident that the raft was too large for the strength of the ropes that held it together, and that a smaller one must be made. Ayr set to work to build it almost alone. Indeed, but four of us were now left—Simpson, an Englishman, Hobbes the mate, Ayr, and I. Ayr had lost a great deal of his strength, and his knife slipped from his hand and sank in the sea. I lent him mine, for the other two men were destitute of knives; Hobbes had lost his when Ayr knocked him out of the boat.
"Just as the new raft was ready to be cut loose, a great sea struck us, and widely separated the two, leaving Ayr and Hobbes on what remained of the old one, while Simpson and I were on the new. I saw Ayr plunge into the water and strike out toward us; but after a few strokes he turned back, either because he felt he had not strength to reach us, or because he would not leave Hobbes helpless. The sudden night of the tropics shut down upon us, and when morning dawned the old raft was nowhere to be seen.
"The sea was now much less violent, and Simpson and I managed to maintain our position in spite of our wasted strength. I felt that another night would be our last. But an hour before sunset we were picked up by a Dutch vessel, bound on an exploring voyage to the coasts of Borneo and Celebes. We had not the luck to sight any vessel going in the opposite direction, and so could only return after the explorations had been made, which kept us away from home nearly two years longer.
"When at last I crossed my father's threshold again, a week ago, I found that I was not only given up for dead, but was supposed to have been murdered by my dearest friend, Roderick Ayr. He and Hobbes had been picked up by a vessel bound for Liverpool.
"Hobbes, who, it seems, had never given up his grudge against Ayr, passing through my native town on his way from Boston to his own home, had stopped over a train for the purpose of setting afloat the story of the wreck, in which he so far mingled truth and falsehood as to represent that Ayr, in view of the scanty stock of provisions on the raft, had successively murdered three of the men in their sleep,—of whom I was one,—robbed them, and rolled their bodies off into the sea.
"When Ayr came along on the next train, a policeman's hand was laid upon his arm before he stepped off from the platform. He was taken to police headquarters and searched, and as my watch, my ring, and my knife were found in his possession, the evidence against him seemed conclusive. But the living, lying witness had disappeared, and could not be found. Either he had felt that he would be unable to confront Ayr and withstand cross-questioning, or else he had no desire to send Ayr to the gallows, but only to disgrace him in the estimation of his townsmen. In this he succeeded to a considerable extent. Ayr told the straight story, which his nearest friends believed—except some who feared he might have done, under the peculiar temptations of a wreck, what he would not have done under any other circumstances; and as no murder could be actually proved, he, of course, could not be held. But most of the people ominously shook their heads, and refused to receive his account of the watch, the ring, and the knife as anything but an ingenious triple falsehood. It was more than he could stand, and between two days he disappeared, his nearest relatives not knowing what had become of him.
"When I suddenly appeared in the town a few days since, those overwise people of two years ago were dumbfounded, and I hope by this time they are sufficiently ashamed of themselves. But some one besides Roderick Ayr had left the town during my absence. Miss Rogers had removed to Detroit six years before, and I took the next train for that city, only to learn that after a brief residence she had come here. So I retraced my journey.
"As we were entering the city this afternoon, I put my head out of the car-window in an idle way, and thought I saw a strange vision—a man standing beside the track with a flag in his hand, who wore the features of Roderick Ayr. In a moment it was gone, and I could not tell whether it was fancy or reality, whether I had been dreaming or awake. But as I was passing through the door of the railway station he accosted me, and sure enough it was my friend."
"By jolly!" said Monkey Roe, and brought his fist down upon the table with a whang that made every dish leap up an inch.
"Johannes in perpetuo!—Jack for ever!" said Isaac Holman.
"O-o-o-o-h!" said Ned, three times—once with his mouth, and once with each eye.
Phaeton leapt to his feet, and waving his napkin over his head, proposed "Three cheers for Roderick Jack-in-the-Box!"—whereupon all the boys rose instantly and gave three terrific cheers and a handsome tiger.
"Please excuse me, Aunty," said Phaeton; "I'm going to bring Jack-in-the-Box," and he was off.
"I don't know what he means by that," said Aunt Mercy. "You see, Edmund Burton, there's a gentleman connected with the railroad—either president or one of the directors—Monsieur Thibaux, Jacquin Thibaux, originally a Frenchman, who seems to have befriended these boys in some way, and they talk a good deal about him. I always have to laugh at the way they pronounce his name; as they don't understand French, they call it Jack-in-the-Box. I believe Monsieur Thibaux is a very fine man, but I don't know why my nephew should bring him here."
"The explanation is this," said Miss Glidden, "that Jack-in-the-Box, Jacquin Thibaux, and Roderick Ayr are one and the same person."
"Then of course I shall be most happy to welcome him," said Aunt Mercy. "But I confess I can't understand how a runaway young man could so soon become president of a great railroad, nor why the president should be waving a red flag, like a switch-tender."
The good lady had surpassed both of her nephews in making a muddle, and before it could be cleared up to her satisfaction, Mr. Ayr was announced.
The hostess rose to greet him, and "all the boys except Miss Glidden," as Patsy Rafferty expressed it, made a rush for him and wound themselves around him like an anaconda.
"Where's Fay?" said Ned, as he looked about him when the anaconda had loosened its folds.
"He's at the Box, managing the signals," said Jack.
The hero of the evening was now beset with inquiries, and nearly the whole story was gone over again, by question and answer.
"I understand it all now," said Ned, "except one thing. Why did you always refuse to look at a newspaper?"
"There were several reasons for that," said Jack. "One was, that the paragraph about my supposed crime was constantly turning up. Another was, that I thought my friends would advertise for me, and was afraid some of them might attempt to decoy me with what they would consider a justifiable fib,—as, that my mother was at the point of death, or something of that sort. If such a thing appeared, I preferred not to see it."