Chapter C: Goodfellow (3)

“What a fire, Steve,” said Charley. “It smells as if you’d been burning a witch.”

“Come on, Steve,” said Will; “we’ve got a good boat, and we’re off for a cruise before they set the tables.”

Steve’s face brightened, then clouded, and he said, hopelessly, “I can’t go.”

“Can’t go?” echoed Charley. “Why, Stunner, what’s the matter with you? You look like a phantom, and here you sit, like an Indian idol; taking no exercise, having no fun, and doing nothing! Come now, you’ve got to go with us.”

“Charley,” Steve whispered, “don’t joke with me, nor make fun of me, for I can’t stand it. Charley, if you should have some old fire-crackers done up in a box, and you should put ’em into a fire, what do you suppose they would do?”

“Do?” said Charley. “Why, if they were _old_, as you say, they might be mildewed, for all you or I know, and burn up with the box, like so much solid wood--or else squib and hiss a little, and then go out.”

This novel and striking idea was too much for Steve’s fevered brain. Mildewed fire-crackers! His head swam; but with an effort he recovered himself, and flashed Charles such a look of gratitude that the plot came within an inch of crumbling into a woeful ruin.

“Poor fellow!” thought Charles. “Here he is fretting about those crackers yet! It is mean to play this trick on him, when he is so worried and excited. But then he is _male-spirited_, as my father says, and I know he would like to get hold of as good a trick himself.”

“Well, Steve, will you go?” Will asked impatiently.

“’Pon my word, I believe Steve has been afraid to get into a boat ever since we were out on the lake!” Jim exclaimed maliciously.

“Don’t stay on _my_ account, bub,” sneered the man in the water-soaked garments. “I shall not be lonely without you.”

Stephen had been recovering his spirits ever since the boys arrived; and Jim’s taunt roused him to anger, while these last outrageous words stung him to the quick.

“Bub!” he repeated to himself. “That’s twice he called me _bub_! I can’t stand being called that; I never knew a boy that could. Botheration! I’ve a great mind to go with them, after all! _They_ will treat me well, and not bother me, nor call me--no, I won’t say that horrid word again. Well, surely, whatever was in the box, is burnt up now!”

Seeing that Stephen still hesitated, Mr. Sarjent took in the situation, bent a gorgon look on him, and again acted the huffer. “I made a blood-curdling threat a while ago,” he said; “I see I shall have to put it into execution, or else you will have to leave. Go, all of you!”

“My stars, Timor! I’ll show you whether I’m afraid to get into that boat, or to do anything else!” Steve cried, in desperation.

Then he caught up a stick and thrust it into the fire here and there, in spite of the peevish and browbeating stranger’s remonstrances. Of course he saw nothing of the box. Though not quite satisfied,--for it was impossible to get entirely over his uneasiness so quickly,--he stopped with a sharp--

“Boys, I’ll go!”

Jim, as recorded above, had no burning desire to go with the boys; but, for all that, he found himself in the boat, and the boat on its way from the island. Then he became alarmed, but seeing no help for it, determined to make the best of it. Two facts are well-established: first, he who accuses another of cowardice is commonly a downright coward himself; second, no right-minded boy can be called a coward without doing some foolhardy thing to prove the contrary.

Poor Steve! The artful boys had quietly had him sit with his face towards the island, and he stole uneasy glances towards it, as if still fearing an explosion. By degrees he became calmer; the fresh, sparkling water revived him; and at length he became even merry. Yet his gaiety was more assumed than real, though the others did not know it. They were delighted with the success of their plot, and thought that he would be as pleased as anybody when the shock of the explosion should be over.

“Let me row,” he said suddenly.

“No, no!” Charles said hastily. “We are going to give you a free ride, Steve; so, sit where you are, with your back against the gunwale, and watch the picnickers.”

Steve complied with this request, little knowing why it was made.

The boat glided along smoothly and swiftly, and presently a bend in the river hid the island from sight, and soon afterwards the merry-makers. Stephen still lolled comfortably in the same position. But as the distance between them and the island increased, he became restless again.

They were now approaching the falls, and would soon be opposite to George and his mine--the “arsenal,” as Charley called it.

Charley was afraid that Stephen might ask embarrassing questions about the fire-crackers, or their course, and he kept up so lively a flow of conversation that the poor boy could not edge in a word.

It was downright cruelty to humbug the boy in this deliberate and underhand way, and we do not wish to palliate their guilt. The reader, however, must bear in mind that these boys are not the sinless and noble-hearted youths who generally figure in stories, but are at all times mischievous, though rarely cruel or wicked.

As they neared the falls, Charles suddenly ceased to talk, and Steve seized the opportunity to ask eagerly, “Will, can you tell me what was in that box? I almost concluded that some mistake had been made, and that perhaps you had found it out since. _Were_ they fire-crackers?”

Will answered hesitatingly, as though ashamed of himself: “Why, yes, Steve, sure enough, a mistake was made. This morning I discovered that instead of fire-crackers, I gave you a box of my father’s, full of wet gunpowder.”

Steve’s face blanched. Not being so learned as George, it seemed to him, in his present state of mind, that wet gunpowder must be more dangerous than any other kind.

“That’s why it didn’t go off; but, if it’s there, it will go off yet!” he muttered.

Will observed the look of dismay on the boy’s face, and said soothingly, “Pshaw, Steve! Don’t be frightened; _wet gunpowder_ has no virtue; don’t trouble about it or the fire.”

Charles and Will, having thus eased their conscience, and Steve’s anxiety, felt that all the warning that duty required had been given; and unshipping their oars, let the boat drift with the stream--taking care, however, to keep close to the bank where George lurked in ambush.

But Stephen, in his awakened uneasiness, did not heed Will’s comforting remark, nor did he wonder how Will could know anything about what had been done with the box.

“Boys, we’re near the falls!” Jim cried, in terror. “Stop the boat!”

But this warning was disregarded, and Charley struck up “Yankee Doodle,” the signal agreed upon with George.

Stephen, of course, did not know what this meant; but Jim did, and he was oppressed with gloomy forebodings.

Mark this: Stephen faced the _right_ bank of the river, while George was on the _left_ bank. The island was hidden by a bend in the river. Consequently, if an explosion should take place, Stephen would naturally jump to the conclusion that it had taken place on the island.

The boat slowly but steadily neared the falls. It certainly would have been prudent to stop their downward course, but no one, except Jim, appeared to be aware of this. Charley whistled bravely, though he wondered why no sign came from George, whom the high bank, fringed with bushes, effectually concealed.

Then the archplotters themselves became uneasy; and concluding that the powder had no virtue whatever they shipped their oars in mournful silence.

What was George doing meanwhile? As soon as the boys left him, he set about digging his mine. “Now,” he mused, “I shall not be so foolish as Stephen; I shall pry the box open, and see what is in it. It may be only a paint box, for all I know.”

By means of his jack-knife he forced off the lid, and found that it was powder--genuine powder--perfectly dry. But alas! the tried and trusty business blade of his knife was snapped off short!

Now, as the reader knows, George was a philosopher, and he took his good fortune and mishap philosophically. “By the end of the week,” he said, “I may be sorry about this knife, but I can’t be now!”

Then, picking up and gloating over the box: “Dry as the sun! How capital! Won’t I make the most of it! But what a blundering family those Lawrences are! Even Mr. Lawrence himself has made a mistake; he thought the powder had got wet. Well, they beat all the folks to blunder that I ever saw; it must run in the family.”

With a chuckle of ineffable satisfaction, he sat down to map out his mode of procedure. “I understand how to make the most of good gunpowder,” he mused; “what fun it would be to have a loud explosion--one that would stun even Will and Charley! I can do it, _and I will_!”

He arose and began to work as only a boy whose mind is bent on mischief can work, gathering up heaps of stones and rubbish; that soiled his picnic clothes, almost beyond restoration. Then he laid the box of powder in the bottom of his mine, placed a heavy stone on the wrenched-off lid, and piled the accumulated stones and rubbish over it so scientifically that a warlike explosion would be a foregone conclusion. The “train” was very simple--only a little pile of chips, twigs, and shavings, and a cotton string that led down to the powder.

When he heard the signal, he set fire to the train; but it took the fire some time to burn its way down to the powder. In his anxiety to see whether it would ignite, he neglected to place sufficient space between himself and his mine; therefore--but the consequence may be guessed; it is sufficient to say that he was neither killed nor seriously wounded.

Charles and Will had taken only a few strokes with the oars, when suddenly a tremendous explosion took place. With a roar like that of St. George’s Dragon the mine had sprung, and a cloud of stones and sundry other things rushed up into the air, only to descend with fury on the surrounding regions. Its effects were startling. Charles and Will were wholly unprepared for such a finale, and their faces showed the liveliest amazement as they stared blankly at each other, struck dumb with consternation.

Before they had time to think, the stones came whistling down all around them--the larger ones striking the water with a heavy and sonorous thud--the smaller ones singing and hissing like bullets.

There was no help for it; they were obliged to sit still and take their chances. Jim screamed himself black in the face, while Marmaduke vainly attempted to realize grandeur or romance in their perilous situation. Poor Stephen! with a ghastly face he kept his seat, apparently unable to move or speak.

All excepting Stephen escaped injury. He, poor fellow, had his arm broken by a falling piece of stone. The boat, however, did not come off so well; two stones bored two large holes through the bottom of it.

The water poured in through these holes, and Jim, boohooing and fearing he knew not what, jumped overboard. This roused the two plotters, Charles and Will, and they shouted, “The oars are gone--we can’t row! Jump out and swim for the shore, or we’ll all be taken over! Come, Steve, _don’t_ be frightened; _don’t_ mind. We did it all, Steve; we did it, and George fired it.”

But Stephen’s brain was in a whirl, and he did not understand them.

“Save Jim! He’ll be too frightened to swim,” Will cried. “Steve and Marmaduke can swim well enough. Hurry! we’re near the falls!”

Will and Charles sprang out of the boat for Jim, grappled him, and, after a violent struggle with the current, towed him ashore, safe, but perilously near the brink of the falls. All three had nearly been swept over! Marmaduke joined them a moment later. They did not know that Stephen’s arm was broken, and believing that he was safe on shore above them, their first thought was for George.

“Oh! he must have been blown to atoms!” Will groaned.

His agony far exceeded Stephen’s on the island--in fact, the tables had been turned in an unlooked-for manner.

“Yes, we must see about him,” said Charles, with pale face and unsteady voice, a gnawing pain in the region of his heart--a sensation that is experienced only when a person is strongly moved.

Scrambling up the bank, they saw George--bruised and bleeding, but looking supremely happy--peering into a jagged hole in the ground.

“Hallo, George!” Will called out. “Are you hurt?”

“Oh, a little,” said George. “Yes,” he added, “I--I’m pretty sore.”

“We were afraid you were destroyed.”

“Well, I never thought of the stones flying about so; I only thought of the noise;” George avowed. “But,” with a self-satisfied smile, “how did you like it?”

“Like it?” said Charles. “Why, it was awful! I’d no idea that gunpowder is such strong stuff: this must have been pretty virtuous, after all!”

“Well, boys, I opened the box, and the powder was as dry as a bonfire. So I fixed things to make a noise; but I never thought the stones would shoot so--I mean, I knew it, of course; but I didn’t _calculate_ for it. It was a fine sight, though, to see them shoot up into the air. How did it appear to you?”

“‘_Appear!_’ Well, the stones broke two holes through the boat!” Will growled. “But where is Steve? haven’t you seen him?”

“Seen him? No, where can he be? How did he take it, anyway?”

“I think he was very much frightened, he looked so queer,” said Charles. “Oh, boys! where is he? Perhaps he was hurt!”

Then they flew to the bank. But the most searching glances failed to discover either the boat or Stephen.

“Steve! Steve!” they shouted, in convulsive grief.

“Oh, who saw him last?” Will asked. “Was he in the boat, or swimming?”

No one could answer the question, and the boys’ pale faces betrayed how their conscience was reproaching them.

In truth, Stephen’s broken arm, together with the shock of the explosion, had rendered him helpless, and he had been swept over the falls in the boat.

It would be dramatic to break off here, leaving the reader a prey to fruitless inquiries as to Stephen’s fate, drop down among the hungry-eyed little picnickers in the grove that bordered the river, and give a glowing description of what was going on. But as this story has very little to do with the picnic, and as most readers would a little rather hear about Stephen, I will deliberately transgress the laws of romance, and tell how it fared with him.

The explosion was distinctly heard by the merry-makers, and the picnic broke up in confusion. Crowds of excited people were soon skirting the winding banks of the river, and Stephen was found and fished out of the water, more dead than alive. He was immediately taken to his home, and a surgeon was called in. The surgeon set the broken arm, and after examining the boy carefully, said that although severely bruised, he was not hurt internally. But Stephen’s sufferings were not over yet. The fright and the shock proved too much for him; fever set in; and it was long before he rejoined his school-fellows, and several months before he recovered his health and strength.

Mr. Lawrence, “a sadder and a wiser man,” blamed himself for having indirectly contributed to the disaster. He reproved his son in these words: “I must say, Will, that you and your companions showed a deplorable want of honor in your dealings with poor Stephen this day.”

The man in whose field the explosion had taken effect set up a howl of righteous indignation on seeing the “chasm” in the ground; and did not stop to consider that the youngsters had only altered the physical features of a little plot of stony and untilled ground by changing the position of a few ancient stones, and by removing a few others into the bed of the river.

The portly and benevolent old gentleman said sadly, as he gazed upon the wreck of his sometime gay little boat, “Well, it is now manifested that a boat cannot be taken over these falls without being shattered to flinders. But, of course, nothing can kill a modern _boy_; _he_ is indestructible.”

The observing reader of this history will remark that whatever these boys meddled with generally came to a dishonorable end.

And the “reformers” themselves, what of them? Probably, in the whole United States there could not have been found three more miserable boys than Will, Charles, and George, as they trudged home that day from the scene of their exploits--the clothing of the first two uncomfortably wet--the frame of the other smarting with pain. But their forlorn and dilapidated appearance excited no pity from the horrified villagers.

Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, in despair, sent their son to his aunt Eleanor’s, to spend a few days, hoping that he would there reflect on the folly of his doings, and amend. He and the others suffered tenfold more shame than Stephen after the scandal about the “mad dog.”

Boys, listen to the moral of this unconscionably dreary chapter:

It is quite right and desirable that you should, under proper tuition, learn the uses and the usefulness of gunpowder; but, if you know of any _trick_ in which it is to be an agent, think of Stephen, and hang back.

_Chapter XV._

A LESSON IN BALLOONING.

Perhaps no one will be able to take in the moral lurking in the following chapters--except, it may be, some atramental old critic, who can discern a “hidden meaning” where no meaning, “hidden” or otherwise, is intended. Our only hope of escape from such critics is that they will consider this story entirely beneath their notice, and so pass it by in silence and contempt.

Will was sent to his aunt’s. This would have been, perhaps, a wise proceeding, if his aunt had been a severe old maid--but she was not. She was, on the contrary, a loving and cheerful woman, with a mettlesome, rattle-headed, yet resolute, son, Will’s “Cousin Henry.”

Will’s rueful mien excited the compassion of the entire family to such an extent that they did their utmost to divert him. Cousin Henry, with a noble disregard of self, gave up his school for two weeks, and devoted himself wholly to Will’s services. The sequel was, the two were soon sworn bosom-friends, pledged to stand by each other to the close of life.

Now, as this Henry was a hare-brained sort of fellow, permitted to do as he pleased, it may readily be supposed that he and Will were not long in getting into trouble.

“Will, did you see my balloon when you were here last?” Henry asked one day.

“Balloon? No; can you make a balloon?” Will inquired, in some surprise.

“Of course I can. American boys can make or do anything. All we want is some tissue paper for the cover; whalebone or cane for the ribs; a piece of wire; and a piece of cotton batten dipped in alcohol to make the gas.”

“I never heard of such a balloon,” Will replied. “_How_ do you make the gas?”

“Why, just set fire to the batten,--that will be fastened under the mouth of the balloon by a bit of wire, you know,--and that’ll soon make the gas. Then away it goes, like a rocket.”

“I should think it might set something on fire,” said Will.

“Well, let it set. There are fire-engines enough in the town to put it out,” Henry replied, with easy indifference. “But, Will,” he added, “don’t be afraid; I’ve rigged lots of them, and they never set anything on fire yet.”

Ah, Henry! You did not observe that your balloons were generally fabricated so fragilely that it was impossible for them to do any harm!

“Then let us make one!” Will rejoined with alacrity.

The cousins, without delay, repaired to Mrs. Mortimer’s apartments, to look for some of the things required. Henry rummaged in a careless way that quite shocked poor Will, and at last issued from the room, leaving everything in appalling disorder. Next, Mr. Mortimer’s valuables were overhauled, and last of all, the hero’s own.

“Now we’ve found everything we need, Will, even to the tools,” he said. “Let us go to work.”

“Won’t you straighten up things, Henry?” Will ventured to ask.

“Straighten! Creation, no! Don’t you know it’s fall house-cleaning time? I don’t fool away _my_ time in straightening!” with virtuous indignation.

Choosing Henry’s room for a workshop, the two fell to work. Notwithstanding the fact that the science of aëronautics was entirely new to him, Will suggested so many improvements that Henry was both astonished and delighted.

“We shall have a famous balloon!” he exclaimed.

“Why shouldn’t it be as good as any you ever made?” Will asked mildly.

“Why, yes, of course; why shouldn’t it. _I_ don’t see,” Henry answered, not at all disconcerted.

“Will, would you like to go with me to the Demon’s Cave some day?” he asked abruptly.

“I never heard of the ‘Demon’s Cave.’ Where is it, and what is the Demon?”

“Then I can tell you all about it while we work. The ‘demon,’ Will, isn’t a ‘what’ but a ‘who;’ and a terrible sort of a fellow he is. Everybody around these parts knows all about him; some foolish people are afraid of him, some even pretend that he is a ghost! Some people that ought to know better say he’s an escaped criminal; but,” in a positive tone, “my father always knows what he is talking about, and he says the poor fellow is more or less crazy. He lives in a queer sort of a cave, or hovel, or hole, in a bank of earth. I’ve heard lots of the boys say that there are several rooms inside; but _they_ don’t know; how should they?”

“Did you ever see him?” Will asked eagerly.

“I never got a good look at him, because he stays denned up like a bear in winter; but one night, a long time ago, some of us boys went howling and yelling around his cave, and he came out at us and chased us like a hungry wolf. The boys ran away like velocipedes, and I--I ran too. The demon was as fierce as a humbugged pirate [Henry was fond of comparison], and he caught one boy, and mauled him like a Spanish blood-hound. That was the only time I ever saw the demon; but that was enough for me.”

Will became interested in the man, and he inquired: “What did he look like?”

“Look! How can I tell? I was only a little boy then, or I shouldn’t have ran away. Well, let me think. Will,” suddenly, “did you ever see a correct picture of Satan?”

“No!” Will said, with horror.

“Well, _I_ have, and it wasn’t half so ugly as the demon. That’s enough to say about his looks, isn’t it? And his clothes! Why, Will, they set him off so well that he looked like a shipwrecked Turk, dressed up in a savage’s stolen spoil!”

Will endeavored to grasp the meaning of this, but Henry hurried on.

“Well, Will, at any rate, he lives there all alone, and has for years. Some folks say he has lots of money; and likely they are right, for what else can he live on?”

“Why, does he buy food at the market?” Will asked.

“No; didn’t I tell you that he keeps shut up like a nun in a coffin? They say a friend of his goes there every once in a while with victuals and things; and likely the demon pays him for them. All the boys say that he has a poultry-yard full of hens and chickens somewhere in his cave. I’ve heard, though, that he prowls around at night, and gets his living that way. Very likely a little of both; for he is often seen out in the night. For all you or I know, Will, he may have a chest full of gold, like a hermit in a story-book for little girls.”

“Then it’s a wonder he doesn’t get robbed,” Will observed.

“You’ve hit it, Will!” said Henry. “A whole gang of thieves broke into his cave once, so the story goes, thinking they would carry off his money, if he had any. But the demon was too clever for them. He hid himself in a dark corner, and frightened the robbers nearly to death. They rushed out of the cave like bumble-bees on a holiday.”

“And didn’t they steal anything?”

“They didn’t see anything to steal, Will. The demon had either put his treasures out of sight, or else he hadn’t any. But I don’t know whether the story is true or not; perhaps it is only a concocted one.”

“Why do the people let him stay there?” was Will’s next question. “Why don’t they take him out of his cave, and take care of him?”

“For several reasons. He is harmless when he is not molested; he lives there quietly, and likely wouldn’t leave his cave unless taken away by force; and no one likes to interfere with his affairs. Of course the people keep an eye on him, and won’t let him suffer.”

“Why do they call him ‘the Demon?’”

“Oh, that’s only a nickname he got. Didn’t you ever notice, Will, how people like to give outlandish nicknames? They’ll pick up the silliest old hunks they can find,--a man that doesn’t know enough to put on his own hat, even,--and ornament him with the name of some vanquished hero. Don’t you see, the ‘Demon of the Cave’ sounds pretty strong; it’s sure to make a stranger turn around and look over his left shoulder, as if he was afraid of himself. Yes, the people in this country like to give big nicknames; they nickname even the Evil One!”

“And doesn’t any person know where this man came from, nor who he is?”

“No, the people here don’t seem to know anything about him before he came to these parts; but there are all kinds of stories about him.”

“Poor fellow!” Will said, softly. “He must have a miserable life there, all alone. Does he have any fires in his cave?”

“Oh, yes; I believe he keeps a good fire all day long; but it must be cold there in winter. I think he gets his firewood prowling around in the night,--not that he _steals_, but he gathers up rubbish and old boards. They say he cooks his food nicely over his fire. There is a spring, or underground well, of some kind in his cave, so that he does not suffer from want of fresh water. But, Will, I could go on talking about him for hours. There are all kinds of stories about him, stories that would make you turn black and blue, and shiver all over. When we go to bed to-night, I’ll tell you some of the worst.”

“You can’t scare me that way, Henry; so you might as well tell them now.”

“Oh, well, they don’t amount to very much, anyway. All the boys say he’s a cannibal, and every few weeks he steals somebody, and eats him up. There was a man missed here once, Will, and he never came back again; so, of course, they say he was taken off by the demon. The man never came back again to say where he had been; and so the story got going, and it’s going yet. The boys say that sometimes he has awful fits of madness, and tears everybody that he meets all to pieces. Oh, there are lots of stories, Will; but if they don’t frighten you, what’s the good of telling them? They’ll scare some boys, though. There’s one little boy that goes to school that the boys make a habit of frightening very often, by saying that they’ll take him to the Demon’s Cave. Then he bellows, and rams his fists into his eyes, and punches ’em nearly out, and swears he’ll shoot all the boys when he gets big enough.”

“And do you tease him, too?” asked Will.

“No, Will; I don’t. I hate to see a boy with the nosebleed, and this little fellow bellows so hard, and pommels himself so much, that he nearly always gets it. You see, one attack of nosebleed doesn’t get rightly cured before another comes on.”

“I see,” said Will.

“Well, Will,” after a pause, “would you like to go and see this cave and the demon some day?”

“Yes, Henry, I should like nothing better;” Will said, with boyish eagerness. “How far away is it, and when shall we go?”

“Well, it’s about three or four miles from our house, and we can go to-morrow night, if it should be pleasant. I’ve always wanted to get inside of that cave, Will, to see whether any of the stories about it are true. We will get into it when we go, or perish on the spot, won’t we?”

Will was quite willing to go and see the place where the demon lived; but, “to beard the lion in his den!” that was asking too much; especially, as he had resolved not to get into any mischief during his stay at his aunt’s.

“Come, Will; _you_ are the only boy I would ask to go with me. I’ve always wanted to go, but I could never find the right boy to have along. _You_ are the very chap; _you_ have nerve; _you_ wouldn’t run away, if the demon should be in one of his fits of fury. And you would enjoy it; you would have it to think of and dream of when you were an old man!”

This last argument, not proving conclusive, Henry continued: “Just think how the boys would envy us! You could tell the boys at home, and make ’em jealous of us for life; and I could stir up the boys that I know, and make them so mad that they would chew India rubber and think it was gum!”

Will was only a boy, and he could, not withstand so seductive an argument. “Well, Henry,” he said slowly, “_I’ll go._”

“Of course; you would always be sorry if you didn’t.”

Now that he had secured Will’s promise to go, he ventured to hint at the propriety of taking pistols.

“Pistols!” Will exclaimed, with horror. “Surely, we don’t want pistols! Why, we might as well turn highwaymen, and be done with it!”

But Henry was a year older than Will, accustomed to have his own way, and he would not yield to the boy’s entreaties. His stronger nature soon overruled Will’s scruples, and he consented to do whatever Henry thought best, though feeling ill at ease.

“Of course, Will, we don’t think of shooting at anything--not for all the world;--but the plan is to get behind an old tree near the cave, fire a pistol to draw the demon out, and then rush in while he is looking to see what made the noise. Don’t you see? Perhaps we shan’t need to fire a pistol at all; but it will be best to have them.”

“Why should we take more than one, and why should we put in a ball?” Will asked uneasily.

“One apiece, Will; and we must have both loaded, for we don’t know what might happen. Now, don’t be frightened; we won’t do any harm, nor break any laws; I know how to manage things too well for that.”

“I promised to keep out of mischief,” Will said, dolefully.

“I know it, Will; and I’m going to help you keep your promise. We can be very careful, and what fun it will be!”

“I’m afraid somebody will get shot,” mournfully replied the assistant balloonist. He was beginning to repent of his promises to Henry; and in his heart of heart he knew it would be extremely ridiculous, not to say wrong, for two hare-brained youths to set out on a nocturnal expedition, with loaded pistols.

_Chapter XVI._

UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES WITH BALLOONS.

The little balloon was now completed, and the demon and his affairs were forgotten. The balloon was rather clumsily constructed, it is true; but it promised to float well, and the cousins were enchanted with it. They bore it tenderly out into the back-yard, arranged it for flight, and were about to fire the prepared cotton batten, when Henry cried excitedly: “Wait, Will! Wait a minute! I’m going to fix a car under it! I see a little old straw-hat of the baby’s here in the yard, and I’ll just hitch it on for a car. Of course; what’s a balloon without a car?”

Henry hastened to do so, and the little bonnet was tied fast to the balloon, immediately under the gas-producing apparatus. Then he set fire to the batten; very soon the balloon quivered; and then up it rose, a really pretty sight. The boys shouted, cheered, and flung out their arms in wild delight.

It rushed up like a rocket--it flew along--it soared--it became smaller and smaller--the “car” took fire--the whole balloon blazed--it wavered--it fell headlong--it lit on the roof of a public building--it set it on fire!

The boys had watched its ascent with enthusiasm, cheering lustily; but when it took fire, their enthusiasm cooled, and in proportion as the balloon burned brighter, their hearts grew heavier. When it fell, their spirits fell with it. They grew sick with fear on seeing flames burst forth on the roof of the building, and looked at each other in utter helplessness. Henry was the first to collect himself, and he gave the alarm by shouting “Fire!” in thundering tones.

Several householders, Mrs. Mortimer among them, flew to their doors at the dreadful cry of _fire_, to see whether their own buildings were the ones menaced. The fire was soon pointed out; the fire-engines rushed gallantly to the rescue; the hoses were adjusted; and the firemen sprang to their work. The two boys got over their terror sufficiently to throng to the scene of action. To Henry it was a familiar sight; but to Will it was entirely new, and he enjoyed it, in spite of himself.

The fire was soon extinguished, and but little harm was done to the building. The whole affair, from the time when Henry attached the “car” to his balloon till the last spark was extinguished, took up only a few minutes.

As the cousins returned to the house, they felt that all was not over yet.

“That’s the worst thing, almost, that ever happened to me,” said Will.

“Never mind it, Will; its over now, and not much harm done. I wouldn’t let that trouble me a minute. We boys in the city, don’t count _that_ as much; we’re used to all sorts of horrible things happening to us; we get hardened to it; we expect it. But it was all that dismal straw-hat; _that_ did the mischief. If I hadn’t flung it into the back-yard the other day, our balloon might be soaring around yet! Well, it’s burnt up now, from stem to stern.”

“Yes, Henry; but it isn’t a very good way to keep out of mischief; it--it makes me feel very miserable. George would say we are _incendiaries_.”

“Who’s George? Somebody that is nobody, I guess. Well, at any rate, that isn’t the word. _Giantize_ is a great deal better. _To giantize_, Will, is to eat like a giant; to do big things; to astonish the natives; to be a hero; to rescue captives. We’ll _giantize_ to-morrow night when we rescue the man--if there _is_ a man--in the Demon’s Cave. Some day, Will, I’ll take you to a bookstore, and show you a weekly paper with continued stories in it, and continual heroes in the stories. These heroes are very, _very_ strong, and good, and brave, and handsome; and they make it a settled business to giantize.”

“Oh, I know what those papers are, Henry; I know a Mr. Horner that takes two or three of them; and he gets so excited over the stories that sometimes he can’t sleep at night. But his boy Jim--Timor we call him--is the biggest coward that ever ran away from a lapdog.”

The boys sat down to dinner with little appetite. Mr. Mortimer made inquiries about the fire, and they acknowledged their share in it. To say that Mr. Mortimer was vexed would hardly express the state of his feelings. In the afternoon a deputation of the City Fathers waited on him, and he and the two cousins were closeted with them some time. What passed between them was never made known; but as they took their departure one of them observed: “Yes, that makes it all right. Well, I never realized before that a straw-bonnet would set fire to a roof. I must tell my boys never to make balloons; or, at least, to make them without cars. By the way, what was it that you dipped in alcohol to make the gas?”

Will was too confused to make a reply. Not so Henry. “Cotton batten, sir, is what we used,” he said, “but a sponge is better still.”

After they had gone, he said to Will: “Now he’ll get himself into trouble! His boys are always trying experiments; and if he tells them about our balloon, they’ll go to work and make one that’ll set the whole place on fire! Oh, they’re awful boys! Only a few days ago they poisoned off a dog with some dangerous gas, and drove the house-keeper’s cat into hysteric fits. Why, Will, their mother can’t keep a tea-kettle three weeks before they swoop down on it; and turn on a full head of steam; and plug up the spout; and batten down the lid; and blow it all to nothing. Oh, that man will have his hands full of sorrow before long.”

“But what does their mother say about it? Surely, she doesn’t like to keep on buying new tea-kettles! And their father,--doesn’t he get mad?”

“Oh, as long as the boys don’t get hurt, their parents think they are smart; and they tell everybody that goes into the house that when the boys grow up, they will revolutionize chemistry and remodel the steam-engine.”

Then the two talked of exploits that they had achieved; adventures that had befallen them; and perils through which they had passed. Henry said that he had had the mumps, the measles, and the small-pox; Will said he had had the sore throat, the chicken-pox, seven boils, lots and lots of warts, and the measles, too. Henry said a circus horse once kicked him hard, and a circus monkey once stole his handkerchief; Will said he once shot a cat with his father’s gun, and it fled away and lived all winter with the bullet in its heart. Henry said that was nothing; he once shot a deer, and if somebody else hadn’t come along and killed it, he believed his ball would have killed it. Will said he could beat that, for he was nearly drowned once. Then Henry said he one day drank so much water that he nearly died; and the next day those smart boys that he had spoken of set him on fire, and scorched his coat till he couldn’t recognize it.

Then they talked of other things, and Will told his cousin all about his school-fellows. Then Henry again referred to the demon and his wickedness.

Judging by the performances of the last few hours, Henry would be a strange companion to visit the Demon’s Cave with, at night, and armed with loaded pistols, “ready,” as he phrased it, “to defend themselves in case of danger.”

* * * * *

It was morning. The cousins were standing in the commons. A crowd of people was assembled. In the centre of the inclosure a colossal balloon (do not smile, gentle reader) towered up into the air. Its manager, Prof. Ranteleau, was haranguing the people. In a few minutes he would ascend in his balloon--who wished to accompany him? He was an adept in the science of aëronautics, and would insure every one a safe, novel, and delightful voyage through the aërial regions. When they had sailed among the clouds to their satisfaction, he would return and descend on the common.

A few people said “good-bye” to their friends, and climbed into the car. The cousins did likewise. The fastenings were cast loose; the professor seated himself with a complacent smile; and with a great lurch the balloon began to ascend.

The people began to make poetical remarks upon the “sublimity,” the “immensity,” the “profundity” of the scene, before the car was fifty feet above the ground.

Will and Henry sat still and looked on; for to their untutored minds the scene did yet seem particularly sublime.

But the balloon rapidly gained in speed, and soon whirled its occupants along at an astonishing rate. Things below became more and more indistinct, and were gradually lost to view. Then the balloonists felt in their pockets for sundry barometers and thermometers; buttoned their over-coats up to their ears; and prepared to enjoy themselves.

The professor reached out his hand to adjust some part of the mechanism. But a valve refused to open, the bulky monster gave a great lurch forward, and he perceived that it had become unmanageable! His benign countenance assumed an air of woe, but he hoped that all was not yet lost. He was deceived.

Suddenly the balloon careened over, and sailed through the air in a horizontal position, very unpleasant to the balloonists. Striking a certain parallel of latitude, it circled round this world of ours like a beam of light. In vain the professor attempted to get control of the unwieldy monster. Dropping their barometers and thermometers, the unhappy æronauts clutched the sides of the car with an agonized grip. Nothing was now said about the “sublimity” of things below; for no one durst cast his eyes to the ground.

Soon they were circumnavigating the world in the twinkling of an eye; and the balloon increased in speed till it exceeded the wildest calculations made by man respecting motion. The wretched travelers of the sky could no longer maintain their hold, and were one by one flung from the fated balloon like missiles from a catapult. They went whirling through space with a rotary motion, like balls from a rifle; while, from a peculiarity in the way in which they were flung, they took a different course from that taken by the balloon, more downward and southward.

Thus the pedagogue’s question, whether anything can be discharged from a motive power in motion, is set at rest forever.

In spite of the awfulness of his situation, Will could not help pitying whatever obstacle they should bring up against, for there would be a frightful collision.

For the thirtieth time the Rocky Mountains rose before them, and a large man, built on the approved Dicken’s model, was shot from the balloon. To the spectator’s horror, he went right through one of the loftiest mountains, just below the limit of perpetual snow, tearing a hole eight feet in circumference through the solid rock. When the “hardy mountaineer” comes upon that hole, he will call it a “freak of nature,” and be at a loss to account for its usefulness. “Ah! he didn’t ought to come!” the professor managed to articulate. But he was not heard, for in an instant an ocean of ether rolled between him and his words.

One by one the unfortunates were hurled from the balloon, till out of thirteen only the professor and the two cousins remained. The monster circumnavigated the globe one hundred times; then quivered, hesitated, slackened its speed, and finally, taking a new start, it left the earth entirely behind, and swiftly drew near one of the planets. It redoubled its exertions, and soon exceeded its former velocity. The air became warmer and warmer, nearer and nearer they came to the planet. The professor determined to make one more effort to check their wild flight, and took his right hand from the support it clutched, to pull a rope leading to a valve.

That movement was fatal: the professor himself was shot out of the balloon. He, however, took an upward course. The balloon seemed to know that he was gone; and quivering with joy and relief, it once more assumed a perpendicular position. The boys relaxed their hold, and gladly stretched their stiffened limbs. But its velocity seemed only to increase.

Six seconds later, the boys felt an awful crash above them. The balloon had overtaken its latest projectile, the professor, and a great collision was the result. Then the gas coming from the professor’s throat, and the gas inside of the balloon, met; and an explosion that jarred the planet they were drawing near,--though it was still three thousand miles away,--took place.

The balloon immediately collapsed, and then a strange thing happened. Will dilated till he reached the dimensions of the last exhumed New Jersey fossil, and then a cry of pain broke from his lips. He opened his eyes.

A calm September sun was shining into the bedroom window; the birds were singing gayly outside; while down stairs he heard Henry’s merry laugh.

“A dream!” Will exclaimed, in great relief! “Only a dream. But it seemed more real than any dream I ever had! Oh, dear! Even in dreams I get into trouble! What will become of me next? Shall I always keep on making blunders? Shall I always get into disgrace, like an idiot or a bothersome dog?”

After a pause, he continued: “Well, I do feel a pain, sure enough! I suppose I ate too much pudding for dinner.”

In this observation he was partially correct. Boys, listen to this glorious precept: _Never eat heartily when you feel as Will felt that afternoon._

“I wonder how a genuine balloon would behave itself?” Will mused, as he jumped out of bed. “Not much like Professor Ranteleau’s, surely. If I could see George, now, I guess he could tell me all about it. Perhaps Henry knows how it would be. Well, I don’t care for such dreams; they make me feel homesick. Poor Stephen! I wonder how he is this morning. Oh! Oh! this is the day for the visit to the Demon’s Cave!”

Having said that, he went down stairs in search of Henry.

_Chapter XVII._

THEY PREPARE TO GIANTIZE.

The boys spent the day in suppressed excitement, not caring to engage in any amusement, but roaming about the house and making their “preparations.” After much wandering through the building, they gathered up everything they thought would be needful.

“It’s a great pity we haven’t more weapons,” Henry said. “Now, Will to go armed rightly, we should have revolvers, not pistols. Seven-shooters, with a box of cartridges apiece, would make us very formidable, and then we ought to have other weapons. Well, I’ve a compass, anyway; you must take it, Will, for you don’t know the way so well as I do. These pistols of mine are very good, for pistols; but after all, they are only pistols.”

Henry was wrong in being ashamed of his firearms. They were very neat and highly ornamented pocket-pistols, which his father had given to him some years before, under a promise not to use them till he should be old enough to do so with safety. He had strictly kept that promise.

There was nothing wrong with them; but Henry got out his father’s oil can, and the two boys toiled over them for upwards of an hour. The oil in the little can ran low, and a pile of greasy rags rose beside them; but when they at last desisted from their labors, a sweet smile of content lit up their grimy features, and unthinkingly they drew out their handkerchiefs.

“Oh!” cried Will with a look of dismay.

“Never mind,” said Henry, composedly. “Just keep yours, and I’ll keep mine, and they’ll make the very best kind of a slate-cloth, and when they get worn out for that, the ragman will buy them at a cent a pound. Now, Will, just look at these pistols; they are as clean as a snow-storm!”

This sublime comparison restored Will’s cheerfulness, and together they wended their way outside to wash.

“Will,” he said, “to show you how _very_ careful I am, we won’t load this pair of pistols till just before we go. All the accidents you read about in the newspapers come from loaded pistols and revolvers lying around loose; so we’ll cheat fate, and not load them till the last minute. And,” he added, “to be still more careful, _you may load them both yourself_.”

But where Will was concerned, Fate was not to be cheated so easily; in fact, on this occasion, Henry was “only playing into her hands.”

For some reason, neither of the boys said anything to Mr. or Mrs. Mortimer about their intended expedition, wishing, according to their account, to have a “tale to tell” the next morning. Although they kept saying to each other that they would be doing nothing wrong, it is probable they feared Mr. Mortimer might think they would be better at home than at the Demon’s Cave. To do them justice, it must be stated that neither meditated doing any harm; they wished only to effect an entrance into the cave. They were certain that they would reach home by bedtime; and then, the affair being all over, they could narrate their adventures at their leisure. They were observing boys, and knew well enough that when they returned in triumph and safety, their little prank would be excused; and far from being blamed, they would be regarded with admiration--even lionized.

Yes, Will and Henry were wise in their day and generation.

In the morning Henry had said to his mother: “Ma, could you get supper earlier than usual to-night? Will and I want to go out about sundown. We’ll tell you all about it afterwards.”

Mrs. Mortimer supposed, of course, that everything was all right, and never thought of questioning them as to whither they were going. She, good soul, promised to get an early supper on purpose for them, and even proposed that they should take some eatables with them. The boys heartily agreed to this--not that they cared to eat on the way; but they thought it would become them, as armed heroes, to take along a knapsack of food.

When supper was announced the impatient knights-errant hastily ate it. Then Henry put some tempting sandwiches--the eatables his kind mother had prepared--into his satchel, or knapsack, and called to Will to get ready.

“Now, Will,” he said, as they flew up stairs to his room, “we must hurry like a train of cars behind time. It is getting late, and you must load the pistols as fast as you can, while I change my boots. Here is everything you want in this drawer, and you know just where to lay your hand on whatever you want.”

“Oh, yes,” said Will.

“See, Will, here’s a big jack-knife for you, and another for me. They’re the toughest and grittiest old fellows you ever saw; stick this one into your pocket.”

So they armed their persons with these formidable and bulky knives. Did they expect to kill anyone, or to be killed themselves?

Will felt no uneasiness about taking a pocket-knife, however big it might be; but he looked at the pistols with awe.

“You secured the compass before supper?” asked Henry.

“Yes.”

“Then don’t stand fooling, Will, but load the pistols.”

The sun had set, and the boys’ bedroom facing the east, it was somewhat dark within it. Will knew he must hurry, for it was getting late, and Henry would soon be ready. His old dread about taking the pistols returned, and his hand trembled with suppressed excitement as he snatched them up.

“I’ll load ’em,” he said desperately, “but I don’t like to do it.”

“Don’t be chicken-hearted at the last minute, Will; you know I rely on you to help me;” Henry called out, from the adjoining room.