“The pressure’s dropping,” said Johnny, consulting the gauge. “’Tis down to two hundred.”
Elizabeth gripped Harry’s shoulder with surprising strength. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Deuced if I know. It’s not the water; we’re showing over half a tank.”
“You were having problems with the differential. Could that be it?”
“I shouldn’t think so. We’d better stop and have a look, eh, Johnny?”
“Stop?” cried Charles. “You can’t stop! The prairie’s on fire!”
“You can keep going if you want,” said Harry. “I only hope you’re a fast runner.”
It took Johnny no more than a minute to locate the problem. “Burner’s clogged. Dirt in the fuel, is my guess.”
Harry groaned. “You were right, lad. I should have strained it.”
“Can you clean it?” asked Charles.
Johnny ignored him and fetched his toolbox.
“We could,” said Harry. “If we had a couple of hours to spare.”
“A couple of hours? We’re lucky if we have ten minutes!”
Harry glanced at the line of flames, which was so near now that they could hear the crackling of the parched grass as it caught fire. Rabbits and mice and prairie dogs scurried all around them, heedless of humans when a greater danger threatened. “Perhaps less than that,” said Harry. He snatched a large knife from the toolbox and thrust it it into Charles’s hand. “Here.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Start cutting grass.”
EIGHTEEN In which
THE CREW OF THE FLASH FIGHTS FIRE WITH FIRE
What good will that do?” demanded Charles. “We can’t possibly cut enough for a decent firebreak!”
Harry unfolded the serrated blade of his sports knife. “It’s not for a firebreak. It’s for fuel.” He grabbed a bunch of the tough prairie grass and sawed off the stems. “Twist it together in a tight bundle, like this, then double it over and tie it with one of the stems.”
“I’ll help.” Elizabeth fished a wicked-looking stiletto from her carpetbag and began hacking off grass and twisting it deftly into miniature sheaves.
Charles fumbled awkwardly with his bundle. “You really think this is going to work?”
“I’d prefer to use wood, but I don’t see any trees, do you?”
“What about buffalo chips?” said Charles.
“Buffalo chips?” Elizabeth echoed.
“Dried manure,” explained Charles. “That’s what the wagon trains used.”
“I don’t see any buffalo, either,” said Harry.
“Got it!” Johnny called, triumphantly holding up the disconnected burner.
“Excellent work, lad!” Harry tossed his grass bundles into the firebox.
Johnny struck one of the lucifer matches he used to light his pipe; the wind promptly blew it out. A second was snuffed out just as fast. “The devil take it!” he muttered.
“Here, I’ll shelter you!” Elizabeth raised the hem of her long skirt high in the air, creating a barrier that blocked the wind. The third match did the trick. The bundles burst into flames, which licked at the bottom of the boiler.
The prairie fire was now no more than a hundred yards away. The smoke from it set them coughing and rubbing at their eyes. Elizabeth transformed her skirt from a windscreen into a basket, scooping into it the rest of the grass sheaves.
“We’ll need to feed them in a few at a time,” said Harry.
“You drive. I’ll feed.” She climbed onto the running board.
“It’s too dangerous!” protested Charles. “You’d better let me—”
“Get in!” she ordered, in a tone that forbade further discussion.
There was enough steam pressure to get them rolling, but just barely. “We would have been better off running!” said Charles.
“Give her a minute or two,” Harry replied calmly. “Johnny designed her to heat up quickly.”
“If we don’t get moving, we’re all going to heat up very quickly!”
“Let’s have some more fuel,” Harry called. Elizabeth clung to the car with one hand and, with the other, stuffed a bundle into the firebox, singeing her fingers.
Though he couldn’t see much through the pall of smoke, Harry knew the flames were almost upon them. If they stayed on the trail, which ran perpendicular to the path of the fire, they were surely lost. He yanked the steering wheel to the right and set off across the open prairie, bounding over abandoned prairie dog mounds. The Flash struck a foot-high anthill, leaped into the air, and came down with a thud that would have broken an ordinary set of springs. “We’ve lost Elizabeth!” cried Charles. “Go back!”
Harry glanced over his shoulder. Elizabeth was on her feet and scrambling after them, still clutching the grass bundles in her skirt. “She’ll catch up,” said Harry.
“She’s injured herself! Look, she’s limping! You’ve got to go back, Fogg!”
Harry pushed in the throttle a bit, and the Flash slowed enough so Elizabeth could overtake them. The moment she was back on the running board, he gave the engine full steam. “More fuel, please.”
Red-faced and panting, Elizabeth crammed another sheaf onto the fire. “There are only a few left!” she gasped.
“That’s all we’ll need.” Harry pointed ahead, where the ground dropped down into a shallow ravine with a line of trees. He barreled down the slope, slackening his speed only a little when they reached the shallow brook at the bottom. The Flash plunged into the water, sending up sheets of spray that drenched them all, then bounded up the far bank.
They stopped at the top of the hill and surveyed the scene behind them. The line of flames swept down the slope as swiftly as the car had. But though the creek was neither wide nor deep, it halted the progress of the blaze. Frustrated, the fire clawed at the trees, scorching bark and low-hanging leaves; when it had consumed all the most flammable fuel, it was reduced to a smoldering mass of blackened grass.
“Well,” said Elizabeth, still breathing heavily. “I certainly have plenty to write about, now.”
“Sorry you were thrown off,” said Harry. “The grass was so high, I couldn’t see the bad spots.”
“I told him to go back for you,” put in Charles. “He refused.”
“No, no, you were right not to stop, Harry. I promised I wouldn’t be a hindrance to you.”
“Not only were you no hindrance,” said Harry, “you were a considerable help.” Taking her wrist, he examined her burned hand. “That must hurt.”
“It does. I was too busy to notice.”
He retrieved a jar of Holloway’s Ointment from their medical bag and gently applied some to her red, blistering fingers. She gave a sharp intake of breath. “Sorry,” said Harry.
“It’s all right. I’m surprised you thought to bring along something so practical as a medical kit.”
“Well, to be perfectly truthful, it would never have occurred to me. My mother insisted upon it.” He wrapped her fingers carefully with gauze and snipped the fabric off with the scissors on his sports knife. “That was quick thinking, holding up your skirt as a windscreen that way.”
“Well, women’s clothing is mainly a nuisance; it’s nice that, for once, it actually proved useful.”
“If you two are quite finished,” said Charles irritably, “may I remind you that it’s going to pour rain any moment now? I think we should be going.”
“My, my,” whispered Elizabeth. “I believe someone is just the slightest bit jealous.”
“I’m afraid he’s not the only one,” Harry replied softly.
Elizabeth glanced at Johnny, who was staring sullenly in their direction. “Oh, the poor boy.”
“Don’t pity him,” said Harry. “He hates that.”
“I won’t.” As they resumed their seats in the Flash, Elizabeth said, “How on earth did you remove the burner so quickly, Johnny?”
“’Tis made that way,” Johnny muttered.
“You just loosen a couple of fittings.”
“Well, it was very clever of you. So was designing a boiler that will burn anything. Without it, we’d have been in serious trouble.”
Johnny blushed deeply. Harry glanced back at Charles. He was gazing at Elizabeth as though waiting for her to praise him, too. When she did not, Harry said, “Good work back there, Hardiman. You pitched in and did your part.”
“Oh,” said Charles uncertainly. “Well. Thank you.” Apparently he was unaccustomed to praise. Harry doubted that Julius Hardiman was the sort to offer much approval or encouragement. Well, that made three things the two boys had in common: Eton, The Huge Hunter, and a disapproving father.
“As I recall,” said Charles, “Johnny Brainerd had some close calls, too, when he ran out of steam.”
Harry laughed. “He did at that. It nearly got him scalped, in fact.”
“Who on earth is Johnny Brainerd?” asked Elizabeth.
“The fifteen-year-old dwarf, remember?”
“Oh, bless me,” groaned Elizabeth. “Not him again.”
NINETEEN Showing that
HARRY, UNLIKE THE STEAM MAN, IS ONLY HUMAN
Elizabeth’s account of their adventure was quite dramatic, and only slightly exaggerated.
North Platte, Nebraska, August 24
... and so it was we narrowly escaped being roasted like so many suckling pigs. Though this reporter’s clothing was considerably charred and her skin badly blistered, she feels fortunate to be alive.
For all its flash and bluster, the storm did not amount to much. By late afternoon we drove out of it, and onto a highway that, for a change, was paved with something more than just potholes. Signs began to sprout up alongside the road, most promoting some business or other. The largest and least crude read WELCOME TO NORTH PLATTE, HOME OF BUFFALO BILL CODY.
Your correspondent had hopes of providing the Daily Graphic’s readers with a personal profile of the famed frontiersman, but alas, it was not to be. It appears that Mr. Cody is not in Nebraska but in England, touring with his celebrated Wild West Show.
An exhausted Harry let himself be talked into spending the night in North Platte. As usual, Charles and Elizabeth took hotel rooms while the more intrepid young motorists made do with the livery stable. After a frugal supper of bread and tinned meat, Harry set about cleaning the kerosene burner.
Though the Flash was back to its speedy self the next day, they barely got into Wyoming before night fell. They set up the tents by the light of the car’s acetylene headlamps. “I’ve seen lamps like those before,” said Elizabeth, “but I’ve never understood how they work.”
Harry grinned and shook his head.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing. It’s just that most women wouldn’t have the slightest interest in how an acetylene lamp works.”
“I’m not most women. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“Oh, yes. Long ago.” He cleared his throat. “Well, it’s not much different from a gaslight, really. There’s a tablet of calcium carbide inside, and a small reservoir of water. When the water drips onto the carbide, it gives off acetylene gas, which you burn to make the flame.”
“Thank you, Professor Monkey. May I use one of them to read by?”
“Actually, I’d rather you didn’t. The carbide disappears rather quickly, and there’s no telling when we’ll find more. Sorry.”
“No matter. I’ve brought candles.”
This caught the attention of Charles, who was picking listlessly at some tinned beef. “Do you have an extra?”
“Of course.” She took a white taper from her carpetbag. “Would you like a book, as well? I’ve some Brontë, some George Eliot, even some Ouida.”
“Ouida?” said Harry. “She writes sentimental romances and dog stories. I thought you read only great literature.”
Elizabeth was not shamed in the least. “I make a point of reading only women writers; sadly, there are not many to choose from.”
“I’m not in a reading mood,” said Charles. “I wouldn’t mind a game of cards, however. Do you play bezique, Fogg?”
“Not very well.”
“Really?” Charles dug a deck from the depths of his enormous portmanteau. “I thought you were good at everything.”
“Not if it requires patience. That’s my father’s forte. But I never could resist a challenge.” Long after the others retired, he and Charles sat in their tent playing cards by candlelight and reminiscing about their days at Eton.
Eventually the talk turned to the Steam Man again, then to steam-powered devices in general, then to the Flash in particular. “To be honest,” said Charles, “I never imagined she would make it this far.”
“To be even more honest,” said Harry, “I never imagined you would make it this far.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” Charles admitted. “But I can’t back out.”
“I understand,” said Harry. “I know what it’s like to have a father who . . . Well, believe me, I do understand.”
Charles idly shuffled the deck of cards. “While we’re being truthful, Fogg, I must say, I’m a bit surprised you’ve stuck with it this long.”
“Are you?”
“Well, as you said, you’re not exactly known for your patience and perseverance, are you?”
“You have a point.” Harry scratched his head thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s just that I’ve never tackled anything before that was quite so important to me.”
“Six thousand pounds is a good deal of money.”
“There’s much more at stake than money.”
“Such as?”
“Such as proving once and for all that the motorcar is not just some overgrown mechanical toy.” Harry shrugged. “And perhaps ...”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
After a lengthy silence, Charles spoke. “When I say I can’t back out, it’s not because of my father. I’ve disappointed him so many times, once more would scarcely matter. But this time I’m determined to show him what I’m capable of—and perhaps prove it to myself, as well. I suspect you feel the same way. Am I right?”
Harry gazed at him for a moment, then took the deck and shuffled it briskly. “I thought we were playing cards, Hardiman, not having a philosophical discussion.”
From the neighboring tent came a drowsy, sarcastic voice. “Whatever you’re doing, could you please do it more quietly? Some of us would like to sleep.”
Wednesday, August 26
A mere ten days remain before the steamer departs San Francisco for Hong Kong. Fogg seems to consider that ample time. I do not. I cannot trust to blind luck, nor do I share his utter faith in the reliability of his motorcar; all it would take is a broken axle or ruptured steam pipe, and his ill-considered wager would be as good as lost.
I wish that we had not played cards until such a late hour—or should I say an early hour? Elizabeth was up with the sun and bustling about so industriously and so noisily that we found it impossible to sleep—getting her revenge on us, I suppose, for keeping her awake last night.
We were on the road by seven. As I write this, I notice for the first time a distant, jagged line of blue on the horizon—the fabled Rocky Mountains, if I am not mistaken, though at this distance they look less like mountains than like whitecapped waves about to break over the land. The sight of them gives me an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. I have seen mountains before, of course; I have even hiked in the Alps. But hiking in the mountains is quite a different proposition from driving a motorcar across
The Flash abruptly swerved sideways, sending Charles’s fountain pen skidding across the page. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“Oh, nothing,” Harry replied nonchalantly. “I was just looking at the mountains rather than at the road.” He glanced at Johnny, whose last-second yank on the steering wheel had saved them from a ditch. “Thanks, lad.”
“You’re not dozing off, are you?” teased Elizabeth. “You didn’t get
much sleep last night.”
“Oh, I don’t need much,” said Harry. “Never have. Two or three hours, that’s all, and I’m ready to go again.”
On the outskirts of Cheyenne, three cowboys on horseback rode toward them, firing their pistols in the air. At first, the intrepid young motorists mistook the men for outlaws, but then realized they were being challenged to a race. After half a mile of pushing their horses to the limit, the cowboys saw that they stood no chance of outrunning the Flash.
A grocer in Cheyenne sold them bread, cheese, and bottles of sarsaparilla, plus half his small supply of kerosene. This time Harry strained it carefully through a cloth before putting it in the fuel tank.
Since leaving North Platte, Nebraska, they had seldom been out of sight of the Union Pacific Railroad; now they were running right next to it. As they climbed into the mountains, the wagon road grew so narrow and bumpy that Harry took to the tracks again.
“You know, Fogg,” said Charles, “I really don’t think this is a good idea. Have you forgotten what happened before? We nearly—”
Harry held up a hand. “Be quiet!”
Charles broke off and listened, eyes wide with alarm. “What is it?” he whispered. “Is there a train coming?”
“No,” said Harry. “I just wanted you to be quiet.”
In the course of the afternoon, they did encounter two trains, one from each direction, but there was plenty of time to pull off the tracks. The ascent was so gradual, the motorists scarcely noticed how high they had climbed until they saw the patches of pitted snow that lingered in sheltered spots.
“Can you reach my coat, Hardiman?” said Harry. “I think it’s in the large leather bag.”
“Thank goodness,” said Elizabeth. “I’m not the only one who’s cold. I’ve been freezing for half an hour.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” asked Charles.
“I didn’t want to be thought a delicate Miss Mollycoddle.” She dug a Mother Hubbard cloak from her carpetbag and wrapped it around her shivering frame.
“The cold doesn’t usually faze me much,” said Harry. “Perhaps I’m coming down with something.”
Around the World in 100 Days Page 11
