Jack squinted at the far-off figure in the car. Harold was right: The man was standing up in the front seat, looking all around. The man turned in their direction and stopped, as if he could see them.
Uh-oh, Jack thought. The last thing they needed right now was another grown-up asking them questions.
“Harold, what are you doing?” Frances exclaimed. Jack turned to see that Harold was waving his arms to get the man’s attention. The man waved back.
“Look, we can’t just go talking to strangers,” Alexander warned.
But Harold had already climbed over the tracks and was running through the meadow, heading straight for the man in the motorcar.
3
THE MOTORCAR IN THE MUD
“That’s my sister,” Harold was saying to the man by the time Frances reached her brother’s side. She and the others had run after Harold, but they hadn’t been able to stop him from talking to the stranger, who had climbed out of the car and was using a cloth to dust off one of the fenders.
“And these are my friends,” Harold continued, motioning to Jack and Alexander and Eli. “We escaped from the orphan trains, except for Eli, who—”
“Harold!” Frances snapped. She turned to the man. “I’m so sorry, sir, my little brother likes to make up stories and—”
The fellow held up his palm. “Say no more, mademoiselle. I mind my own business.” He tipped his hat and nodded at Frances and the boys. “Name’s Philander Zogby, and I humbly solicit your assistance.”
“That means you need help, right?” Harold asked.
Mr. Zobgy nodded. Frances couldn’t help noticing how dandyish he appeared—his cap was checkered, his suit striped, and he had a mustache that drew up into points like a bull’s horns. But under his mustache she could see that he was young, not much older than eighteen or nineteen, and it was hard for her to think of him as Mister Zogby.
He gave one of the front tires of the car a soft kick. “As you can see, my Cleveland Tonneau has found misadventure,” he explained. “I’ve been heading to St. Louis, on my way to the Fair, but these country roads aren’t made for motoring.
“I tried to take a shortcut through this nice meadow, but it seems meadows aren’t made for motoring, either.”
Frances and the others bent down by the front of the car for a closer look.
The mud in the meadow wasn’t too wet, but it was soft, and the motorcar’s front wheels had sunk down into it, the tires forming two deep ruts.
Alexander straightened up. “I don’t know, sir. That . . . Cleveland thing of yours is awfully big.”
And nice, Frances thought. The car had brass fittings on the headlamps and shiny upholstered seats. It looked pretty out of place in the middle of a meadow. Too out of place, in fact.
“We can’t just drag it out,” Alexander continued.
“Of course not!” Zogby said. “But we can put something under the wheels so they don’t keep digging into that mud. . . .”
Jack was nodding now. “And then we can push it from the back!” he said.
Jack seemed glad to help this Zogby fellow, Frances noticed. She looked over at the others. Alexander’s face was wary—Eli’s, too. Harold was busy gazing at the shiny brass edge of the car’s front grille.
She didn’t trust this fellow in his fancy duds and gaudy motorcar, but he sure looked like he had nickels to spare. Maybe, if they managed to get him out of this jam, he’d help them out, too.
Alexander caught her eye and shrugged. He seemed to be thinking the same thing.
“Well . . . all right,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”
Jack and Harold were already collecting twigs and sticks to put under the motorcar, laying them across the ruts in the mud and wedging them under the tires. When they’d gathered as many sticks as they could, Zogby began to work the engine crank.
“Get ready,” he called.
Alexander and Eli and Jack went to the back of the car, while Harold clambered up into the rear seat.
“What are you doing?” Frances scolded. “Get down from there!”
“Er . . . I told him he could give the orders,” Zogby said with a grin as he cranked.
“What orders?” she said, but suddenly her voice was drowned out by the chugging engine as it sputtered to life.
“PUSH!” Harold yelled at the top of his lungs.
The three older boys pushed against the back of the car. It rocked forward a bit, then shook as the front wheels struggled to find traction.
“PUSH!” Harold called again, but the wheels still spun in place despite the boys’ best efforts.
Frances looked at Zogby, who was now in the driver’s seat, fiddling with some valves, and then at her friends. Jack and Eli had dug their heels into the soft ground, while Alexander locked his arms and pressed his hands. She couldn’t tell if they were pushing really hard or just making a big show out of pushing. She went over and found a spot next to Alexander.
“We don’t need help,” he said, gasping.
“Sure you do,” she said. Then she gave the car a good shove the next time Harold called PUSH.
They all felt a big bump, and then the motorcar lurched forward.
“Excellent!” Zogby shouted.
Jack and Eli whooped with triumph. Frances, meanwhile, grinned at Alexander. He smiled back, though he looked a little sheepish, too.
The car chugged a few yards over to drier ground. “Climb aboard!” Zogby called. “I’ll take you back to town!”
“What?” Frances cried. It was one thing to help this fellow, but it was another to go off somewhere with him in that automobile. “I don’t think this is such a great idea,” she muttered.
“Come on,” Jack whispered. “I think he’s all right. And besides, we really ought to find a map soon. Maybe there’ll be one in the next town.”
Alexander didn’t look as sure as Jack, but Eli was already climbing up into the car, and Harold was practically bouncing with excitement.
“Can I ride in front, Frannie?” he asked.
Frances sighed. “Fine, but you’ll have to sit with me.”
A moment later she was perched up on the front seat with Harold and Zogby, while the three boys sat in back. She’d never been in a motorcar before—the seats were almost as high as a buggy’s, and the chugging engine made everything shake like a nervous dog. It felt a little like the freight car she’d ridden to Kansas City, but the noise was different—a constant sputtering from the engine that threatened to drown out everything else. In fact, Zogby had to shout over it as he steered the car across the meadow and onto a road.
“WHICH TOWN?” he called. “WHERE ARE YOU HEADED?”
Frances turned back to look at the boys, but Jack only shrugged.
“ANIMAL, RIGHT?” Zogby shouted. “ANIMAL?”
Frances and the boys all exchanged confused looks. What is he talking about? But then Eli’s face lit up, as if he’d just realized something. “Yes!” he shouted. “Hannibal!”
Suddenly Frances understood, too: Hannibal. That was a town in Missouri. She hoped it wasn’t far. This Zogby fellow seemed decent enough, but she didn’t know how long she could listen to him talk over the engine.
“I WAS HEADING TO ST. LOUIS MYSELF!” he shouted. “FOR THE WORLD’S FAIR! HAVE YOU HEARD?” He looked over at Frances and Harold, who shook their heads.
“THE LOUISIANA PURCHASE EXPOSITION!” he went on. “THE PAPERS SAY IT’S A MARVEL.”
“A FAIR?” Harold yelled.
“MORE THAN A FAIR,” Zogby shouted back. “IT’S A LAND OF PALACES! THEY BUILT A CITY NEXT TO THE CITY AND IT’S ALL GRAND PALACES! THEY’VE GOT THAT OBSERVATION WHEEL THAT’S TWO HUNDRED FEET HIGH!”
Just then a stiff breeze picked up and filled Frances’s ears with wind, and then she could hear only bits and snatches of Zogby’s words.
“ELECTRICAL . . . BIGGEST EVER! . . . TEN-MILLION-DOLLAR PIKE! . . . A MILE LONG!”
Frances could only shrug, though she could see that Jack and Eli were leaning forward in the backseat as if trying to catch every word. Finally Zogby pulled over by the side of the road and cut the engine so he could continue.
“. . . and there’s an exhibit for nearly every country in the world! And oh, the amusements! You can ride the Golden Chariot or the Fairyland Chutes. Or visit the Ostrich Farm, or the Telegraph Tower, or the Moorish Palace. I hear they’ve even got a horse on display that can read and write and do sums!”
Frances tried not to roll her eyes. This place sounded loony. And it couldn’t be any better than Coney Island back in New York, which had electric lights everywhere and was only really fun until you got sick of the crowds and the smell of fried clams.
Harold, for his part, was nodding at everything Zogby said. “Wow,” he breathed. “Can we come with you to the Fair, Mr. Zogby?”
The young man grinned. “It would be great fun to go, wouldn’t it?”
“YES,” Jack and Eli said in unison.
“Except we’re going to California,” Alexander said sternly. “Remember?”
Harold bounced in his seat. “’Zander! Can we go to the St. Louis Fair first, please? With Mr. Zogby?”
“Harold!” Frances scolded. “Mr. Zogby did not say he would take us to the World’s Fair!” She thought Zogby should know better than to talk about the Fair like that and give a kid like Harold ideas. Just what is he trying to do, anyway?
Zogby nodded. “Indeed, I said nothing of the sort,” he replied. “Because, as it turns out, I will not be attending after all.” His fingers tapped the steering wheel as if he were thinking. “This trip has had some . . . er, complications, and I realized that it’s best if I return to Chicago.”
“Oh,” Harold mumbled.
“Yes, it’s a shame,” Zogby said, staring off into the distance. “But perhaps,” he said, turning in his seat to look at all of them, “you’ll go the World’s Fair. You’ll go instead of me. Go in my place!”
4
TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE?
Jack was too stunned to say anything for a moment. Judging from the long silence, everyone else was, too.
The first person to speak was Frances.
“Oh, we’re going, all right,” she said, opening the car door on her side and jumping to the ground. “We’re going to walk the rest of the way to Hannibal, thank you very much.”
“Wait!” Zogby replied. “Please, I can explain . . .”
Frances shook her head. “We’re not getting into some ridiculous scheme.” She tugged Harold’s sleeve, then Eli’s. “Come on, everyone.”
“Wait!” Jack blurted out. He hadn’t planned on speaking up; it had just happened. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Alexander glaring at him, his hand on the latch of the car door. Alexander had been just about to get out.
“I mean,” Jack went on, “let’s hear what he has to say.”
Zogby spoke up. “I can certainly elaborate further. See, I have some business at the Fair that I wish I could attend to, but . . . I can’t. It’s better if I don’t go.”
Jack wondered why, but there was something sort of strange in Zogby’s eyes that made him decide it was better not to ask.
But Alexander narrowed his eyes. “Your business sounds awfully secret.”
“Which is exactly why you’re just the right people to go in my stead. You’re kids—nobody will notice you. And you’re—” Zogby seemed to search for the right words. “Well, I get the sense that you’re on your own, yes?”
He looked right at Jack, who nodded yes.
“You look smart, the whole lot of you. I bet you’ve had to get through some tough times.”
He’s got that right, Jack thought.
“This business you’re in,” Frances said, a little sarcastically. “Is it against the law?”
“Not any—” Zogby began, then corrected himself. “Not at all, I mean.”
Jack wanted to believe him, and he was pretty sure Eli did, too. But he glanced over at Frances and Alexander, who were exchanging wary looks with each other. Clearly they didn’t trust Zogby one bit.
“Look,” Zogby said. “All you have to do is deliver this for me.” He reached into his striped suit-coat jacket and pulled out an object wrapped in a silk handkerchief. He held it out as he uncovered it. At the first glimpse of something shiny they all leaned in for a closer look. Even Frances had come back to the side of the car to take a peek.
Jack saw metal—dull gold, and a glinting chain. The thing was a medallion of some kind, covered with elaborate sculpted designs. Zogby turned it over so they all could see both sides. On one side was a bird—a hawk or a falcon of some kind—with outstretched wings, and on the other, an ox with a crown on its head.
“Whoa,” Jack said under his breath.
The medallion was big enough to cover Zogby’s palm, and there was some kind of writing all along the edge. Not writing, Jack suddenly realized—symbols.
Eli drew back suddenly. “What is that thing?” To Jack it seemed like he practically jumped.
“What it is isn’t important,” Zogby told him. “But I promise it won’t bite. You can hold it if you like.” He held out the medallion to Eli, but the boy shook his head no.
Jack took it instead. It felt heavy in his hand. Expensive.
Frances reached out to hold it, too. “Is it stolen?”
“I promise you it is not,” Zogby replied. “But it is very valuable, and my . . . my associate will give you a spectacular reward for bringing it to the Fair.”
“Hmm,” Frances said, weighing the medallion in her hand. Harold peered over her arm at the thing but would not touch it. Alexander kept his hands in his pockets.
It seemed to Jack that whatever the thing was, it was important. It made him think of the gold watch that his brother, Daniel, had once pointed out to him in the window at Segal’s on New Chambers Street. He’d been saving his wages to buy it. “Imagine having a treasure like that in your vest,” Daniel had said. “Bet it makes you really feel like you’re someone.”
Zogby’s voice brought Jack back to the present.
“Well?” he asked. “Can I count on you all to deliver this safely to the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, otherwise known as the World’s Fair, in St. Louis? It’s a fine opportunity, if I say so myself.”
Jack looked over at Frances, then at Alexander, but it was hard to read their expressions.
Finally Alexander answered. “Er . . . could you give us a moment to discuss among ourselves?”
“Certainly,” replied Zogby. Then he took the medallion back from Frances and tucked it back in his jacket. “I’ll be over here.” He opened his door, stepped down from the car, and walked off a few yards to wait.
Alexander lowered his voice to a whisper. “What do you think of this fellow’s idea?” he asked everyone.
“It’s some kind of a scheme,” Frances said. “It sounds awfully fishy. All we have to do is go to the World’s Fair? I don’t believe it. I think we should just hit the road.”
Alexander seemed to agree. “It sounds too good to be true. There’s got to be a catch. If carrying some geegaw to St. Louis is such a swell opportunity, why would he give it to a bunch of runaway kids? Why us?”
Jack looked out to the road, where dust still hung in the air from the motorcar. Zogby had crossed to the other side of the road to give Jack and the others more privacy, and now he waited patiently.
“Maybe Zogby was once like us,” Jack said, crouching down farther in the car seat so as not to be overheard. “Maybe he made some money for himself and just wants other folks to be able to enjoy the finer things in life.” Daniel had been like that—he’d always point out the fanciest buggies and motorcars on B
roadway, promising that he’d buy one for the family someday. Jack was sure he would have, too, if he’d lived.
Alexander shrugged. “Eli, what do you think?”
“I don’t like that gold thing,” Eli said. “I’m not going to carry something with a message on it in some crazy secret language that nobody but the devil can read.”
“What, you think it’s a curse?” Jack asked.
“Don’t know! And not knowing’s good enough reason for me not to trust it,” Eli replied. “But . . .” He looked thoughtful. “If someone else here wants to carry that thing, I’ll gladly go to the Fair.”
“Me, too!” Harold put in. “It sounds like the greatest place.”
“We’re already heading someplace great,” Alexander said. “California!”
“But how are we supposed to get there with no money?” Jack argued. “Look, if Mr. Zogby is telling the truth about the reward for the medallion, then we’ll continue on to California with some coins in our pockets.”
“And if Zogby is lying about the reward?” Frances whispered.
“It’ll be the same thing,” Jack whispered back. “Except we’ll just sell the medallion. It sure looks like it’s worth something, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Frances admitted, though she was still frowning.
“Maybe we can get some odd jobs at the Fair, too,” Eli pointed out. “In fact, I heard some of my mama’s cousins were looking to get work there.”
“Come on,” Jack said to Alexander and Frances. “Doesn’t the St. Louis World’s Fair sound a whole lot better than just walking down that road?”
Alexander sighed. “Yeah, I guess.” But he looked at Frances, as if he were waiting for her to decide.
“Say yes, Frannie?” Harold pleaded.
“Fine,” Frances said. “We’ll go with Zogby.” She opened the door of the motorcar and climbed back in.
Jack couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. He stood up in the back seat. “Hey, Mr. Zogby!” he called, waving.
Just for a moment, as Zogby turned to face them, Jack almost thought it was his brother turning. He had nearly the same kind of dark, slicked-back hair, and he’d pushed his cap back the same way Daniel had done. If Jack needed a sign that this was the right decision—and maybe he did—this was it.
Escape to the World's Fair Page 2
