Читать книгу Frank Reade and His Steam Horse - Luis Senarens - Страница 6

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Six weeks after the incidents narrated in the previous chapter had taken place, our young genius was at work in his favorite shed, trying the strength of his wagon in all parts, when the rear door of his father’s house was thrown open and our Hibernian friend rushed down the walk yelling out at the top of a sound pair of lungs:

“Frank, me brave gossoon.”

“Barney!” gladly cried the boy, and then he deserted his work and sprang forward to meet his old friend.

“You dear old rollicking roarer,” he said, seizing Barney’s hand with a fervor that attested his liking for the big-hearted Irishman. “How are Mrs. O’Doolah—I beg her pardon, Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan and the pigs?”

“Well an’ hearty,” laughed Barney. “And how do I foind ye!”

“In the same condition as Mrs. O’Doolahan and the porkers,” smiled Frank.

“And up till your eyes in woruk?”

“Right,” said Frank. “I told you I could do it, and I’ve done it. Just walk into the workshop and look at my nag.”

“I will that,” said Barney; and into the wood-shed he and Frank tramped.

“Musha my God, but that’s nate!” muttered Shea, gazing with admiration and some wonder at the noble looking steed of metal that stood there. “An’ ye have the conthrivance all complate?”

“Every bit.”

“An’ can he travel?”

“Like a flash. I wouldn’t hesitate to go fifty miles an hour.”

“Howly smoke, fifty moiles in wan hour.”

“Yes, sir, on a good road.”

“An’ ye can manage the masheen?”

“Oh, yes,” said Frank, “nothing easier in the world. That strong leather rein that you see running to either side of his mouth will control his movements as quickly as they can be handled. And I can make the old nag turn just as easily. I’ll tell you how that’s done.”

“Go on,” said Barney.

“Were you ever lost?” asked Frank.

“In a pace o’ woods, is it yer mane, or the loiks o’ that?”

“Yes.”

“Mony’s the toime.”

“And could you walk straight ahead?”

“Divil the straight. I wint around in a big circle all the toime, an’ jist when I thought I wur coming out all right, what would I do but fetch up slap jist where I started from.”

“Exactly,” said Frank. “And don’t you know the reason?”

“Divil the wan do I knaw.”

“Well, sir,” said the genius, “it is because one leg is always weaker than the other with everybody, and if you shut your eyes so that you can’t see where you’re going you’ll travel right or left according to which leg is weaker, for the strong one is sure to swing around towards it in consequence of taking a longer and stronger step. Now, I have divided my power so that I can put it on one side, and therefore by pulling a little harder on the left rein than on the other I go to the right, thus having to steer reversedly.”

“I see,” said Barney; “an’ ye got that nate idea from yer own legs?”

“Exactly,” said Frank. “Now, just take a peep at my wagon.”

The vehicle was a very solidly constructed affair, much heavier than a live horse would have cared to travel before, but the limbs of the Steam Horse were powerful and tireless.

The wagon was all made in small but neatly fitting sections, and all the several joints were made of rubber, so that the very fastest time over a rough road need not subject the occupants of the affair to any very severe jolting, and this forethought on the part of the boy was warmly praised by the Irishman.

“Here at the back of the wagon,” said Frank, “I have my vats for holding water, and those long pipes you see here will run along to the shafts, then from a ring they curve up to the haunches, and supply water to my boiler. Here at the sides I intend to carry a supply of sea coal, while I can make it last, and when I run out I’ll use wood or anything I can get, for my furnace will consume anything, and all I want from it is heat, and turf will give me that. Then in the center will be placed that wonderful trunk of mine, and I have made clasps to hold it down. I’ve invented a whole lot of new infernal contrivances, and I intend to scare the redskins out of their seven senses on this trip.”

“Ye can do it,” confidently asserted his admiring friend; “ye have the jaynus.”

“I will make their hair rise,” said Frank.

“An’ is Goorse well?” asked Barney.

“First-class,” said Frank.

“He’s a broth of a boy,” said Shea. “Well, and whin do we sthart away for fighting and fiddlin’?”

“Oho,” laughed Frank, “and do you mean to say that you’ve brought your fiddle with you again?”

“Bedad an’ I have,” grinned Barney. “Where I go, goes me fiddle. I have no wife, nor no childer, and me dear old fiddle’s me only darlint.”

“Good enough,” said Frank. “Well, we’ll start just as soon as I can buy all of my supplies, which will take a day or two, and then hurrah for the West.”

“Hooroo!” cried Barney Shea.

On a bright, sunshiny morning in midsummer, a little steamboat puffed up to the dock at Clarksville, and was made fast to the pier.

A crowd of interested idlers stood on the wharf, and among them was a young man of medium height, but with broad and well-set shoulders, who stood well forward, looking eagerly at the passengers on the deck of the crowded steamship.

Suddenly he espied two familiar faces on the deck, and, rushing eagerly forward, he shouted:

“Frank! Barney!”

“Charley Goorse! Charley Goorse!” excitedly exclaimed Shea.

“Yes, that’s Charley Gorse,” said Frank, and, with Barney at his side, he leaped on the pier and dashed up to his stalwart Western cousin.

“Dear old boy,” cried Gorse, seizing him in a bearish hug, “you’re just as thin and boyish as ever.”

“An’ jist the same wonderful jaynus that he was afore, only jist the laste bit more so,” said Barney, as his hand was grasped by Charley’s. “How are ye?”

“Hunky dory,” said Charley. “How are Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan and the pigs?”

“What!” cried Barney, “did you know Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan an’ the pigs?”

Charley roared outright, and Frank laughed heartily.

“I wrote to him,” he said.

“Oh, I moind,” said Barney.

“Massa Charley,” said a voice at the elbow of the Western lad, “I’se here.”

Frank turned to look at the speaker, and he was forced to laugh again.

There stood the most comical figure he had ever seen.

A full-blooded negro, black as the blackest of Africans, stood there, with an immense grin on his charcoal mug.

He was not higher than four feet, his chest and shoulders were large and swelling, and from his enormously long body descended bandy legs of a little more than one foot in length, while his feet were the finest specimens in the heavy corn-crushed line that could have been met with.

His head was very large, rounded off as smoothly as a cocoanut, and covered with hair that curled so very tightly that he could not shut his mouth.

The last named feature was probably five inches wide, presenting the appearance, when the darkey was on a broad grin, of his head separating into two equal parts, one above and the other below the awful cavity that he displayed.

His teeth were large and as white as snow; his ears were like two small wind-mills attached to his head, while his nose was as broad and flat as a good old-fashioned Connecticut pancake, squatted right down on his face.

This extraordinary creature returned Frank’s glance with an inquiring glance from his little beady eyes, which were as bright and piercing as those of a rattlesnake.

“This,” said Charley Gorse, “is my servant and constant companion, Pomp. He is as faithful as a dog, is one of the biggest cards in the way of a rumpus, and can cut up more didoes than any performer you ever saw in a sawdust ring. He’s one of the most wonderful riders and whistlers in the West; can ride on his head or his ear, charm snakes and call birds with his whistle, throw knives, hit the bull’s eye generally, and always sleeps with one eye open. Pomp, tip these people your hash-grabbers.”

“Yes, Massa Charley,” groaned Pomp, thrusting forth a horny black paw, fully as large as Frank’s foot. “If dey’s your frens, dey’s my frens, and dis nigga’ll fight for ’em till he’s chawed clar to nuffin.”

Frank and Barney shook hands with the grinning darkey, and then the quartette walked away to Charley’s home, Frank first giving the directions for unloading and conveying his boxes.

An hour later the case containing the different sections of the steam horse and the wagon were brought to the house, and they all gathered around to see Frank unpack his new idea.

In a short time the horse was put together and attached to the wagon, and everything belonging to the cargo designed for the body of the vehicle carefully stowed away.

Then, while Frank was firing up, Charley Gorse went to his barn, and soon came back with the Steam Man, and the old giant glared down from his height upon the steam steed of the plains.

“The old man looks natural,” said Frank.

“First-class,” said Charley; “and I’ll match him to travel against your horse.”

“Bully for you,” said Frank. “Do you want to try it now?”

“I do,” said Charley. “Pomp, go and get our rifles and other things, and stow them in the wagon, for we may get out too far to reach home again to-night.”

In a short time everything was ready.

Pomp mounted by the side of Charley Gorse, and Barney Shea took his place alongside Frank Reade; the steam was let on carefully, and away went the horse and man through the village at a moderate pace, the people staring in open-mouthed amazement at the novel sight.

Then out upon the level plains they went and steam was crowded on.

Away they flew like rockets over the hard and level ground, the breeze raising their hats as they dashed along.

The horse took the load and maintained it, dashing along on a square, rapid trot, his legs fairly twinkling as he spurred the ground with his sharpened hoofs.

The Steam Man put forth mighty efforts, and made giant strides; but he couldn’t match the metal steed.

Onward they flew in a straight line over the plains.

Buffaloes dashed across their path and bounded madly away to either hand.

Troops of prairie dogs ran barking and snarling from their homes, and uttering frightened yells, scampered away as fast as their little legs could carry them.

Onward at fifty miles an hour!

The small shrubbery of the plains seemed to fairly fly past.

Although there was not a particle of breeze, they created so much wind by their great speed that Barney came near losing his hat from his head while in the wagon of the Steam Man, and grinning, clung on for dear life.

It was faster than he had ever ridden in his life.

Charley made a big spurt, and slowly closed the gap between him and the Steam Horse.

Frank looked at his gauge.

“Guess I can stand a few pounds more steam,” he said, and clapped it on.

As he did so the wheels of his truck hit against a big stone.

Up into the air went the wagon.

Flop went Barney Shea into the bottom of the truck, shouting:

“Oh, why did I lave Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan an’ the pigs!”

As the wagon went up Frank Reade made an involuntary clutch.

He didn’t care what he got hold of, so that he could hang on, for it wouldn’t have proved just the cheese to have gone flying head first out of that truck just then.

It happened that he clutched one of the driving reins as he felt himself rising in the air.

This big pull on one side caused an instantaneous increase of speed on one side of the horse, and away he wheeled, dashing off like a rocket at right angles from the course.

Down came Frank in a heap on top of Barney, and just then the truck landed on the ground and bumped along once more.

A terrible danger threatened Barney and our hero as they lay floundering in the body of the wagon.

The Steam Man, coming up at a smashing pace, had held steadily to his course, and was now plunging forward with immense strides.

The Steam Horse was darting along on a course that would bring him directly across the Steam Man’s track.

A collision seemed inevitable.

For these two steam coursers to collide meant death.

With a pale cheek Frank Reade peered over the seat and beheld the man rushing down upon him.

He seized the reins.

Charley Gorse beheld the danger at this moment, and a cry of horror pealed from his lips.

The horse and the man were converging toward one point.

There was not time to turn aside.

Only a desperate chance remained for Frank Reade to try.

He pulled hard and sharp on the reins, and threw the entire power of the machine into the iron limbs.

Like an immense bolt, the horse sprang forward, just as the man dashed close up to him, and the two vehicles scraped by with an ominous sound that made them all shudder over their narrow escape.

Then Frank wheeled again, moderated his speed, and ran on a parallel course with the man, and about half a mile from Gorse.

“The Steam Man does well,” muttered Frank, as he slowly increased his speed, “but this hour shall decide whether he can beat my Steam Horse. Now for the grand spurt.”