Charles, on the other hand, hated leaving anything to chance. He had purchased a map of the area and spent much of his time either peering nearsightedly at it—he had eyeglasses but was too vain to wear them, particularly in front of Elizabeth—or attempting to keep it from blowing out of the car.
Harry would not have minded so much, had Charles not insisted on calling out at regular intervals something on the order of “Now, when we reach New Brunswick, you’ll want to take the road to the right; otherwise we’ll end up in Atlantic City.” When he sensed one of these comments coming, Harry tried to find a bump or a pothole that would rattle the boy’s teeth.
Elizabeth was not fazed by this in the least. She merely hung on to her hat and cried “Whoo!” as though she were on a roller coaster. Aside from these deliberate jolts, the ride was so smooth that she asked, “What sort of suspension did you put on her, Mr. Shaugnessey?”
Johnny had pulled a kerchief over his head and was tying it under his chin to keep his cap in place. “Coil springs, ma’am,” he mumbled. “One on each wheel.”
“Coil springs? Is that your own invention?”
“You might say he reinvented them,” Harry put in. “Coil springs have a tendency to break; these are made of a special alloy.”
“Well, they work superbly,” said Elizabeth.
Charles raised his eyes from the map. “According to this—” he started to say, but the breath went out of him as the car lurched over a half-buried rock.
Harry was not much on planning, either. He hadn’t thought to inquire whether Americans might have some laws about motorcars. But he had learned his lesson back in Marylebone about sharing the road. When he overtook a bicycle or a hay wagon, he slowed down and made a wide detour, calling out, “Motorcar coming! Motorcar coming!”
Despite his precautions, horses sometimes panicked at the sight of a large, self-propelled vehicle belching smoke. And more than one cyclist, either startled or fascinated by the Flash, went careening into a ditch.
Gradually the traffic thinned out, until at last the turnpike stretched ahead of them, unoccupied and unobstructed, all the way to the horizon. Harry, who was admittedly not burdened by cares even at the worst of times, felt such a fierce sense of freedom that he let out a whoop of delight.
“What the deuce is wrong with you?” demanded Charles.
“Wrong? Nothing is wrong. That’s the point! For the next one hundred days, we’ll have no responsibilities, no rules, no demands, no parental disapproval, only the open road before us. Isn’t it splendid?”
“Ninety days,” Charles reminded him. He glanced up at the darkening sky. “And it won’t be so splendid when those clouds decide to let loose.”
To Harry’s disgust, Charles’s gloomy outlook proved accurate. All afternoon, the sky grew more and more threatening; as they crossed the bridge over the Delaware River, they were caught in a drenching downpour. Harry halted and helped Johnny put up the rain hood, which had lain folded up accordion-style behind the rear seat. The leather cover was attached to a framework of steel rods; when the hood was raised, the rods locked into place to support it. As the wind picked up and began blowing rain into the cab, they pulled down the leather side curtains, which had small windows made of isinglass—thin sheets of mica.
When they reached Philadelphia, Charles took a hotel room, but Elizabeth remained with the others. “I don’t want any special treatment,” she insisted. “Besides, I can’t afford a hotel.”
When they tried to rent space in a livery stable, the owner regarded both the motorcar and Harry’s English banknotes with disdain. “I don’t take no foreign money. And even if I did, I wouldn’t share my roof with the very thing that’s going to put me out of business one day, would I?”
Elizabeth lifted the side curtain and showed the man her press pass. “You will be out of business far sooner,” she said sweetly, “if I tell my readers how you refused shelter to the son of the famous Phileas Fogg.”
When they were seated on bales of straw, drinking coffee and eating ham sandwiches provided by the stableman’s wife, Harry said, “That was quick thinking. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You gave yourself away, however.”
“In what way?”
“When we met, you told me that you knew nothing about my father.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I didn’t want you thinking I was interested in you only because you were Phileas Fogg’s son.”
“Yes, well, in future could you please leave my father’s name out of it? I don’t like always feeling that I’m riding on his coattails.”
“All right,” said Elizabeth. “Next time I’ll tell them you’re the son of the famous Thomas Edison.”
Harry couldn’t help laughing. “We’ve got one of those already.” He nodded at Johnny, who had taken up his oilcan and was lubricating everything on the car that could be lubricated.
“True. But he’s Mr. Edison’s older son, Thomas Junior. You can be the younger and less mechanically gifted son . . . Monkey Edison.”
Among Harry’s enviable qualities was the ability to fall asleep anywhere. He gathered straw into a soft though prickly mattress, spread a blanket over it, and was out like one of Mr. Edison’s electric lights. Ordinarily he would have slept soundly until morning, but halfway through the night he woke with the distinct sense that something was wrong.
He lay listening to the muted sounds around him—the horses sighing, the raindrops skipping along the roof, Johnny snoring—until he heard one that seemed out of place. It sounded like metal scraping metal and it seemed to come from the far end of the stable, where the Flash sat alongside half a dozen ordinary carriages.
Harry crept down the aisle toward the car. As he passed the adjacent horse stall, its occupant gave an uneasy snort. Harry froze in place, but it did no good. The skittish animal snorted again and danced nervously about, bumping the sides of the stall.
The scraping sound stopped. A moment later, a dark form slid from beneath the motorcar. Harry nearly called out, “Johnny?” But though Johnny had been known to work on the car at odd hours, he wouldn’t do so without an acetylene lamp. Besides, Harry could hear his friend’s familiar guttural snore issuing from the next stall.
But who else would be fiddling with the Flash, and why?
THIRTEEN In which
EVIDENCE IS FOUND AND ACCUSATIONS MADE
Harry would have been wise to sneak up and catch the intruder unaware, but it was not in his nature to be sneaky. He stood and called out, “You there! What are you doing?”
The shadowy form sprang to its feet and ducked behind one of the horse-drawn carriages. By the time Harry reached the spot, the figure had vanished; the only clue to where it had gone was the open door of the stable, flapping in the wind.
The disturbance had upset the horses, and their anxious whinnies roused the stableman; he appeared in the doorway with a kerosene lantern in hand, water streaming from his slicker and rain hat. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
“I caught someone messing about with our motorcar,” said Harry. “Did you see anyone leave the stable just now?”
“Not a soul,” said the stableman. “You sure you weren’t just having a bad dream?”
“Perfectly sure. Here, let me borrow that.” He took the lantern and, kneeling next to the car, examined the ground. Scuff marks in the dirt showed that someone had been scrambling about in the spot. He shone the light beneath the Flash but could see nothing out of place.
The stableman snatched the lantern and went to check on his horses. When Harry returned to the stall that served as their bedroom, Johnny was still sound asleep. “Is something wrong?” said a soft voice. “I thought I heard shouting.”
“We had a visitor.”
“A visitor? Who?”
“I wish I knew. I suspect someone was trying to sabotage the Flash.”
“Oh, dear,” said Elizabeth. “I hope he didn’t succeed.”
“Not
as far as I can tell. We’ll examine her more closely in the morning.”
“You didn’t get a look at the culprit, then?”
Harry shook his head. “Too dark. You may as well go back to bed. All the excitement’s over—I hope.”
She put a hand on his arm. “You get some rest, too, Harry. We don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel.”
“Yes, all right.” But instead of stretching out on his straw bed, Harry curled up in the rear seat of the Flash, where he dozed fitfully until dawn.
When it was fully light, they pushed the car into the stable yard and Johnny crawled under to make certain nothing had been damaged. When he emerged, Harry said, “Did you find anything?”
“No. But I have a feeling.”
“A feeling?”
“Something’s wrong.”
“With the car, you mean? What sort of something?”
Johnny scowled. “I don’t know.”
“Well, we may as well fire her up. If there is anything amiss, we’ll know soon enough.”
While the Flash built up steam, Harry searched the bay where the car had sat. He found, crammed beneath one of the carriages, a ragged old peacoat. The back was covered with dirt. Clearly, it had been worn by the unidentified intruder.
The obvious suspect was the stableman. When Harry confronted him, the man admitted the coat was his. “I keep it hung on a nail by the door; I use it whenever there’s dirty work to be done. Mind you, it wasn’t me who messed with your motorcar. I was in the house, sound asleep, until I heard all the ruckus.”
Harry was inclined to believe the man. After all, why would he would run away, only to grab up a lantern and rain gear and come right back to the scene of the crime? But who else had a reason to want the car disabled?
The answer was so obvious that Harry mentally kicked himself for not having seen it before. He was so deucedly naive, it had never occurred to him that Julius Hardiman might have sent his son along not to keep Harry honest but to make certain that he lost.
Harry stuffed the peacoat under one arm and strode across the alley. Just as he reached the back door of the hotel, Charles appeared, glancing up at the sky. “Thank heavens that beastly rain has let up.”
Harry thrust the dirty coat under his delicate nose. “I’m onto you, Hardiman!”
Distastefully, Charles pushed the coat away. “Well, I’ll thank you to get off me. What is that smelly object?”
“The coat you wore last night!”
“Are you out of your mind, Fogg? You couldn’t force me at gunpoint to wear such a repulsive garment.”
“Don’t try to deny it! You used it to keep your fancy clothing clean while you crawled under the car!”
Charles appeared genuinely puzzled. “Why on earth would I do that?”
Harry flung down the coat. “I may be gullible, Hardiman, but I’m not a complete fool! Now I see why your father wanted you aboard the Flash! So you could sabotage her!” He raised a fist, tempted to knock the disdainful look off Hardiman’s face.
Charles flinched, but stood his ground. “My father is a gentleman, sir. He would never resort to such tactics. Even if he did, I would not carry them out.” Charles straightened the lapels of his well-tailored tweed jacket. “I believe you owe me an apology.”
Harry’s fit of righteous anger quickly lost steam. “And I will gladly tender one . . . if you can prove that you were not in the stable last night.”
“I can’t prove it. But I give you my word, I did not try to sabotage your machine.”
Harry took a deep breath and blew it out again. “All right. I’ll accept that. For now.” He scooped up the coat. “Mind you, I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, all the same.” He started for the stable.
“Just a moment,” said Charles. “You never properly apologized, you know.”
“Yes, all right, if it will make you feel better, I apologize.”
“Thank you. Oh, by the by, I’ve changed some money into American dollars. Perhaps you’d like a bit.”
“You’re giving it away?” Harry said. “How kind of you.”
“I expect English currency in return.”
With two of the bills, Harry purchased twenty gallons of kerosene from a drugstore. Another two went to the stableman, and a half-dollar to his wife for some ham sandwiches and fruit. Harry and Johnny wasted no time on eating; too many hours of daylight had escaped them already. They topped up the fuel and water tanks and set off.
Once they left the paved streets of Philadelphia, they found that the heavy rains had turned the dirt roads to something resembling glue. Harry tried in vain to muscle the motorcar through the mud. “I suppose we’ll have to put on the other set of wheels,” he said.
While he and Johnny labored at this task, Charles sat in the Flash, jotting in his journal.
Sunday, August 16
Though our mechanic, whom I have mentally nicknamed Quasimodo, does not appear overly bright, he has proven more practical-minded than his friend Fogg. He had the foresight to construct a pair of steel wheels, designed for use where extra traction is needed. Rather than the usual hard rubber tyres, they are equipped with metal cleats, like those one sometimes sees on steam tractors. Fogg asked for my help in installing them; I reminded him that I am neither a motorist nor a mechanic, merely an observer.
Elizabeth has taken advantage of the halt to get a bit of exercise. When she climbed from the car, I offered to assist her, but she declined. As she stepped down, she hiked the hem of her skirt nearly to her waist. I averted my gaze, but need not have, for beneath the dress she wears a pair of baggy trousers gathered just below the knee—bloomers, I believe they are called.
The cleated wheels are installed. I’m glad I sat this one out; Fogg and Quasimodo resemble golems, so caked with mud are they. They have turned up the burner, and we will be on our way soon. Or perhaps not. Fogg is indicating that something is amiss, signaling us all to be silent. Ah, yes; I hear it now—a distinct hissing noise coming from beneath the motorcar. It sounds very much like escaping steam.
FOURTEEN In which
THE FLASH CHALLENGES A LOCOMOTIVE
Harry had plenty of time for a ham sandwich after all—any number of them, in fact. He sat helpless for an interminable two hours while Johnny repaired the line that fed steam to the engine. The pipe had not actually been cut, only filed down so that it would burst under pressure.
Through the smudges of dirt, Harry could see that his friend’s face had an unhealthy pallor. “Your head’s hurting, isn’t it?” he said.
Johnny nodded slightly, then grimaced with pain. He had put so much of himself into the Flash that, when anything went wrong with the car, something went wrong in Johnny’s head. Ever since the accident with the horse, he had been subject to blackouts and violent headaches. They were unpredictable, but seemed to occur most often when he was under stress.
“I’ll put your tools away,” Harry said. “You stretch out on the grass and relax for a while.”
“We need to go,” Johnny protested weakly.
“I was thinking of stopping for a few hours anyway, until the roads dry out.”
“Liar.”
“Well, in any case, it wouldn’t hurt. Go lie down, now. Or have a sandwich; that might help.”
“Nothing helps.” Nevertheless, Johnny lay down in the shade and draped an arm over his eyes to block the light.
“Is he ill?” Elizabeth asked quietly.
Harry nodded. “He gets these pains in his head. He says it’s like having his head squeezed in a vise and pounded with a chisel.”
Elizabeth clucked her tongue sympathetically. “I have something that may help.” She retrieved her carpetbag from the box on the back of the car and took out a bottle labeled DR. PEMBERTON’S SYRUP. “Give him two capfuls of this,” she said. “I mean the bottle cap, of course, not the cap on his head.”
“Thank you for clearing that up,” said Harry.
Whether it was due to the medicine itself or s
imply to the power of suggestion, within half an hour Johnny was feeling well enough to take his seat in the motorcar. Harry relit the burner, and they set off again.
Beyond Lancaster, the roads began to improve. Though he hated stopping, Harry knew they would make better time with the rubber-tired wheels, so he pulled over and got out the jack.
When Charles made no move to help, Elizabeth gave him a reproachful glance, then said to Harry, “I’ll assist you, if you like.”
“No, no,” Charles said hastily. “I’ll do it. It’s no job for a lady.” As he climbed awkwardly from the car, Harry and Elizabeth exchanged a small conspiratorial smile.
To Charles’s dismay, they didn’t stop in Harrisburg to clean up and change clothing. Harry insisted on driving well after dark; the acetylene lamps on the fenders cast a dim light for ten or fifteen yards.
Until now, the land had been relatively level, but once they crossed the Susquehanna River they began to climb into the mountains—the Appalachians, according to Charles’s map. The most practical route through the mountains was the one chosen by the engineers who built the railroad line from Harrisburg to Pittsburgh. When the wagon road they were following crossed the railway, Harry impulsively turned onto the tracks.
Knowing they would be driving over rough terrain, Johnny had equipped the motorcar with forty-inch wheels. Smaller tires would have dropped into the gaps between the wooden sleepers, but these rolled over the ties with a rhythmic, almost soothing thumping sound.
Charles took advantage of the relatively stable ride to jot another entry in his journal:Sunday, August 16
We have resorted to driving on the tracks of the Vanderbilt Railroad. I am not at all certain that this is a good idea. I inquire what we will do if we happen meet a train. Fogg blithely replies that either it will have to get off the tracks or we will. I ask how we will accomplish that. He replies that we will simply pick up the motorcar and move it. I cannot make out whether he is being frivolous or serious.
Around the World in 100 Days Page 8
