Part 10

"What's the matter? Something on your mind?"

Luther removed his hat and coat and lit a cigarette before answering.

"Well, I should say there was. Have you any objections to being a millionaire?"

"Not especially. Got the cash with you?"

"Not this morning. But I've got the next thing to it."

If Katz felt any excitement at this announcement he concealed it. Perhaps he knew Luther too well. With a smile, and a slight movement of the shoulders, he said:

"Of course it's a dead sure thing."

"It is."

"Well, that's something."

"You know, Katzy, the only sure things in this world are death and taxes."

"Yes. So I've heard."

"Well, compared with this thing of mine, taxes are dreams and death never happens. Listen. I can place in your hands a contrivance hardly bigger than a dinner plate that generates electricity without machinery; that has infinite power; that can drag railway trains of any size at any speed and can drive an ocean steamer. It weighs about five pounds and costs nothing to run."

Katz slowly moved his head, and frowned.

"It's a bad habit, Luther."

"What's a bad habit?"

"Cocktails in the morning. You are seeing miracles."

Luther protested. Then he explained The Thing in detail. Katz pronounced it impossible.

"Of course it's impossible!" said Luther. "That's why it's so devilish good. It does the impossible all day long and all night, too. Why, Katz, it can do anything you ask it--and with no expense. God Almighty supplies the electricity--all you want and for nothing. Can you beat it?"

The electrician began to show interest.

"But are you pop sure it can do these things? Have you seen it work yourself?"

Then to I. Katz, with the bright eyes and muddy complexion, Luther told of the wonders he had seen with his own eyes--touched with his own hands. He described the two soup plates of metal fastened together, with the mysterious space between--the small chamber which held the Miracle of Science. And its priceless secret to be theirs! To give some idea of the power of these two plates he told Katz what happened to Delos King and his load of hay. Delos King's big load of hay got stuck in the meadow. The wheels had sunk in the mud up to the hubs. Two yokes of oxen tried in vain to stir it. Then Cyrus Alton, carrying The Thing in his hand went down to the meadow, fastened what Delos King thought were two kitchen plates to the end of the pole, turned the button a fraction of an inch and drew the big load of hay out of the bog and up the hill as if it had been a baby carriage!

Moreover, Luther described to Katz his own experience with this device. When fastened to his chest with straps, that went over his shoulder and under his arms, he had turned the little button and had been lifted gently from the floor and he floated at will near the roof of the old barn.

"But what flabbergasted the old hard heads more than any other one thing," continued Luther, "was the way Cyrus fixed the weather vane on the Baptist Church. It had been struck by lightning--bent and twisted. It's a tall spire and the deacons were trying to figure the cheapest way of getting up there without a scaffolding, when Cyrus happened along. 'What's it going to cost you?' he asked. 'Twenty-five dollars at least,' they said. 'Give me twenty-five,' said Cyrus, 'and I'll do it before night.' 'It'll take you half a day to get up there either by rope or scaffolding,' they said. 'I can get up there in one minute,' said Cyrus, 'after I once start.' At first they laughed, but they agreed to pay twenty-five dollars. Then Cyrus went home--this was in the forenoon--came back with his two soup plates; also a hammer, a monkey wrench and a few other tools. And right there in front of the crowd, he slung the bag of tools across his shoulders, strapped on the soup plates, turned a button and rose up in the air like a wingless angel. Gee! I tell you the deacons stared! Their eyes were wider open than their mouths!"

"No wonder!" said Katz. "They had reason to be! And did he fix the vane?"

"Well, rather! It didn't take him an hour."

Luther told of other doings that had startled Longfields; of the metal contrivance over ten feet long that resembled a fat cigar; how Cyrus Alton sat inside and, without apparent machinery, rose up through an opening in the barn and sailed at will, in any direction and to any altitude. In one evening he had sailed over the whole of Massachusetts--and more, too.

Then I. Katz, whose bright black eyes had grown brighter and brighter, asked many questions. All his questions were answered promptly, and so clearly as to leave no doubt that the tale was true.

"But how can you get hold of the miracle?" he asked. "What's your scheme?"

Then the artful Yankee unfolded to the still more artful Asiatic his plan--a plan so simple that even the artful Asiatic began to feel prosperous. Some pleasant morning and very soon, while talking with Cyrus, Luther would buckle on the little machine, as if to sail about the barn. Cyrus would probably consent, as on two previous occasions. Then he, Luther, would turn the button too far, as if by accident, pretend to lose control of the machine, and sail up through the big skylight of the barn, which was always open in pleasant weather. He would wriggle his elbows as if trying to regain control of The Thing. Once up in the air, above the roof of the barn, he would steer in the direction of a certain pond, two miles away, all the time working his hands and elbows as if trying to get back to earth.

"Are you sure you can do it?" said Katz. "You might really lose control if you didn't keep your head."

Luther smiled. "Oh, I can do it all right! I have no idea of steering for heaven before my time. You see I've already done it, and I guess I did it about as well as Alton himself. It's really as easy as driving a Ford--and lots more fun. Why, Pussy, it's like being a bird!"

Katz nodded. "Yes, it sounds good. But where will you go when you once get up?"

"To the big pond, three miles off. It's always a deserted place--especially forenoons. I shall land in a little cove I know, unstrap the machine and hide it in the woods there. Then I shall wade comfortably into the shallow water and lie down for a minute,--with my clothes on."

I. Katz's eyebrows went up. "I see; I see! Bright idea! The machine carried you into water and you had to swim ashore."

"Even so."

"And you lost the machine, which is somewhere in the mud at the bottom of the pond."

"Yep."

"And you'll hurry back to your friend while still wet, so he'll know that what you say is true!"

"You've got it. And that afternoon I'll bring the invention to your shop."

I. Katz, of the muddy complexion, stroked his Oriental nose and nodded approval. His comprehending eyes lingered for an instant on Luther's face with a look that indicated admiration and a friendly feeling. But the unflattering thoughts it covered were not divined by the New Englander.

* * * * *

It was decreed by incorruptible Fate that Luther's opportunity should come the very next morning.

Cyrus was at work in the barn. Dr. Alton, sitting just outside the door in the shade of the building, was reading a war article in a French journal that some one had sent him from Europe. Luther moved idly about, as if to pass the time. At a moment when he saw Cyrus especially absorbed in his work--inside the big iron cigar--he took up The Thing and adjusted the straps about his shoulders.

"I am going to float around the barn," he said, "and see how the roof looks."

"All right," said Cyrus, keeping on with his work and not turning his head.

To avoid all risk of hitting the sides of the skylight--for he must rise with apparently unexpected suddenness--he stepped outside the building. With a smile and a nod he said to Dr. Alton:

"If you never saw a real angel, Doctor, here's your chance."

As he put his fingers to the button Cyrus came running out. "Stop! Hold on Luther! Let go! That's not adjusted!"

But Luther was not to be thwarted at the high tide of victory--with riches within reach. He put his fingers to the button and said, with a smile:

"Oh, I know how it----"

The sentence was never finished. He had given the slightest turn, having a sensible fear of the unknown force within. In his haste he must have turned it a fraction more than he intended. For then happened the unprecedented thing--the thing without parallel in human life; so awful, so solemn, so unearthly, that the two men who saw it stood dumb in horror.

As he was speaking, with the smile on his lips, he was lifted from the earth by the straps beneath his arms with a violence that stopped his speech--and his breathing. Up he shot, more like a cannon ball than a rocket. So fast he went, gaining speed with every second, growing smaller and fainter to the two spectators, until--and it all happened in the shortest minute--he disappeared, a tiny speck in the blue sky above.

He had no chance to change his speed.

His straw hat, with its crimson band,--like a frivolous friend too light of heart for sudden tragedy--came tumbling earthward, then floated off to the west in playful, easy spirals. A gay farewell to a lifeless body. For death had been instantaneous.

Dr. Alton and Cyrus stood looking upward--at the spot in the heavens where Luther had disappeared from earthly vision. It was hard to believe what their eyes had seen. And when, in silent horror, they looked into each other's faces, both knew that this sudden traveler had started on a darker and a longer voyage than any previous explorer; that he was moving at a speed unknown to other mortals, and that his journey would never end. Both knew that within the hour he would be beyond the orbit of the earth; that the power propelling him felt no exhaustion. Unless colliding with other celestial derelicts, or drawn into the path of some distant planet--Neptune or Uranus--he would push further out into the Infinite. Then, would he join some starry host, off toward the Milky Way, the Southern Cross or Orion's Belt, and glide forever, a homeless vagrant through the dusky void?

His youthful features, untouched by decaying moisture in the icy gloom, might remain, through the countless ages as his friends last saw him, long after his native earth--like its own moon--had become a lifeless ball. Or, beyond the visible stars, far out into bottomless Space,--too far ever to return--is he to wander through the uncharted regions of yet remoter worlds?

XI

UNSIGHT UNSEEN

"After midnight, Uncle George, and miles from anywhere, so do please hurry."

These were parting words to an uncle as he started back to the nearest house--perhaps a quarter of a mile away--to get gasoline for his motor.

Alone in the car, the waiting woman began to realize the extraordinary darkness that enveloped her. Along the road, in front, the two head lights sent their beams of light. But elsewhere, on either side, behind her and above, the black air seemed almost threatening in its silence. So solemn was this silence that she began to imagine herself the only living creature in England. Her own home was in another country, and the invisible scenery on either side was all a mystery. It might be open fields or densest forest--or both. But the damp air that came slowly against her face seemed laden with odors of yet darker places, of deep ravines or sunless caves.

Was this hideous gloom a regular habit with English nights? Being in a foreign land this darkness was, perhaps, more terrifying than darkness in a more familiar country. In the heavens above were no signs of light, either of light that had been or of light to come. And it seemed, in this tomb-like silence, as if the very universe were dead: as if she had drifted into space--the infinite space of her astronomy. From this sable silence she sought relief in watching a portion of the road that lay before her, now illumined by the two lanterns of the car. These beams of light seemed a cheerful, human bond between life and death.

From the gloom, on her right, came the hopeless hoot of an owl. It seemed a voice from the sepulcher--a summons to despair.

A hundred feet, or more, in front of her, where the farthest rays of this light began to lose themselves and mingle with the darkness, she saw a rabbit jump into the road, and speed across it. She wondered what had frightened him. Also, she was inclined to blame him for not being safe at home with his family instead of roaming about the world on such an evil night. To a woman yearning for a sign of life 'twas a welcome sight; but this rabbit, although a thing of life, was as noiseless and unreal as the ghostly world about him. With his half dozen silent leaps through the bar of light he seemed a phantom creature, "of such stuff as dreams are made of."

From his nervous haste she judged that he was frightened. It was possible, of course, that he was a fearless rabbit and merely taking exercise for his health. But this theory was not accepted, and she watched with interest to see what sort of a pursuer, if any, might appear. Being in that state of mind when almost any imaginings might come true, she would not have been surprised had the pursuer been a real phantom.

But these speculations became less trifling, of a sudden, and were transferred to quite a more serious object. From the same place, in the same ghostly manner, but more slowly than his predecessor, stepped the figure of a man. Shading his eyes with a hand, he stood for a moment in the stream of light as if taking his bearings, or dazed by the glare of the lanterns. Then he scraped, with his foot, a line in the road at right angles to it, piling up a little mound of earth. The witness, in the car, supposed he was marking for future guidance the spot at which he entered from the blacker world. At last, and always with a hand before his eyes, he came toward the blinding headlights. The invisible spectator had straightened up and her dreaming eyes had opened wider. For the figure was a strange one. On its head was a curious cap, which seemed to be of leather. There were pieces at the ears standing up like wings, as on some ancient helmets she had seen in pictures. The rest of his attire also resembled leather, with high leggings reaching above his knees. Around his waist a wide metallic band, something wider and more important than a simple belt, glistened as he moved. The girl, in alarm, stood up, looked back and listened for the absent uncle. She heard nothing, and could see nothing. She sat down again, and waited.

The man, of medium height and slender figure, appeared to move unsteadily, as if weak, or dizzy. He walked slowly, and stopped, once or twice, as if to balance himself on unreliable legs. The unseen spectator thought he might be ill, or injured in some way. When, at last, he passed from the glare of the headlights and came into the darkness, beside the car, she could discern him, dimly--or rather felt his presence--as he stood there. And she knew that he was trying, and probably in vain, to form some idea of the seated figure before him. At last he spoke.

"Can you tell me, sir, where this is; what place?"

With these words the girl's fears departed. For, not only were they uttered in a gentle, well modulated tone, but the voice itself had a pleasing quality.

"I don't know, sir. But my uncle will be here in a moment. He can tell you."

She could see that he took a step backward, and stood further away.

"I beg your pardon, madam. One can't see much in this light. Could you tell me what--er--what state this is?"

"What state?"

"Yes--if you please."

This was a yet harder question. Did he mean some administrative division of the country which she had never learned. Being unfamiliar with English political geography, she answered simply.

"I don't know."

This time it was the questioner who was surprised. But, even more gently than before, he inquired:

"You don't know what state we are in?"

"No, sir."

There was a short silence.

"Could you tell me," he inquired, always deferentially, "the name of the nearest town?"

"Droitwich. I think we are in it now."

"Droitwich?"

"Yes, Droitwich."

He repeated the name as if hearing it for the first time.

"It must be a small place," he said.

"I think it is."

"What is the nearest town of importance;--the nearest city?"

"Worcester."

"Oh, Worcester! Thank you. I know Worcester. But I never heard of that other place,--this place,--Droitwich. How far are we from Worcester?"

"About six miles, I think--six or seven."

"Oh, really!" He seemed relieved. There was happy surprise in his tone. "Thank you. I am very much obliged. Good night."

He walked away, out into the stream of light. Slowly he walked, carefully and with uncertain steps. A few yards away, however, he stopped, hesitated, then turned, came back and again stood beside her.

"I beg your pardon for being so persistent, but may I ask you one more question, even more foolish than the others? This city of Worcester is in the State of Massachusetts, is it not?"

"In the state of Massachusetts?"

"Yes--that Worcester is the one you mean, is it not?"

Now if this conversation had occurred in the United States the girl might have answered wisely, for she was more familiar with that country and knew something of its geography. But when such wide-of-the-mark questions were propounded in the heart of England they brought bewilderment. Moreover, they indicated an unbelievable ignorance or a wandering mind--or impertinence.

Her frown, although invisible in the darkness, seemed to reach the traveler.

"I beg your pardon, but I really have no idea where I am. Would you mind just telling me what part of the country we are in? Are we in Massachusetts?"

His manner was earnest. The sincerity of his tone again inspired confidence--and awakened her sympathy. "I don't quite know how to tell you, but we are very far from Massachusetts."

"Then what state _is_ this?"

"I don't know just what you mean by state. The only state of Massachusetts I ever heard of is in America."

"Isn't this America?"

This question so far transcended, in foolishness, all its predecessors that her fears returned. She made no reply. What traveler, in his senses, could be so far astray? Was he a wandering lunatic escaped from his keepers, preferring darkness to light? Or was he merely amusing himself at her expense? As she recalled the lateness of the hour, and his strange appearance on the scene, her fears once more returned. Her impulse was to stand up, turn about and see if her uncle was in sight. But she dared not stir. Such action might offend him. For lunatics are often sensitive, and easily enraged. The figure in the gloom, however, came no nearer, but remained at a proper distance. When next he spoke it was slowly, and yet more earnestly. And the girl knew from his manner as well as from his words that he suspected the impression he was making.

"I don't blame you, madam, for whatever thoughts you may have. I have traveled so fast and so far that I am really dazed. But if you will kindly tell me where we are, in what country, state, province or territory,--anything--it will be doing me a great service."

In a constrained voice, and in a tone which made it reasonably clear that this conversation was affording her little pleasure, she replied:

"We are near the city of Worcester, in England."

For a moment he stood in silence. Then, with a certain weariness in his voice, "Thank you. I hope you will pardon my disturbing you."

"Certainly."

Again he moved away.

This man's voice stirred memories. But these memories--of some far-away past--were dim and elusive. Vainly she tried to recall either when or where she had known the voice. Just as he was turning from the bar of light to disappear into the outer gloom, there came to her a gleam of memory from the distant past. Quickly she stood up in the car, her lips parted to call aloud. But she hesitated. A mistake, under present conditions, might prove more than awkward. So she uttered no sound. The stranger, however, as if responding to the unuttered words--to the thought itself--turned about and came toward the car. He walked quickly, but with the same unsteadiness as when he first appeared; and always with a hand before his eyes to shut out the blinding glare of the headlight. When alongside the car, again invisible in the darkness, he said:

"Yes, I am Drowsy. Who calls me?"

She was startled as she realized, in a kind of terror, that the unspoken message must have reached him. However, she answered, simply:

"Ruth Heywood."

With an exclamation of surprise and joy he opened the door, climbed in and seated himself beside her.

"Oh, this is too good!"

In the darkness he groped about and they managed to shake hands.

"Why, Ruth, this is hard to believe!"

It was, indeed! Many questions were asked, and answered. And they talked of earlier days at Longfields, of Longfields people, of what sort of men and women their playmates had become. More than all else, they talked of their old friendship and their various adventures together. And both laughed in recalling how Ruth in that distant period was mother, sister, aunt, governess and best girl to Cyrus. This revival of the old intimacy had reached a stage where the enshrouding darkness was almost forgotten.

"But tell me, Drowsy," she demanded, "how came you here and why did you ask all those crazy questions? I should be sorry to think you had been dining too well."

"Dining too well! No, my wabbly course just now was owing, partly, to not having dined at all:--and with neither lunch nor breakfast either."

"You poor thing! Then why pretend you didn't know you were in England?"

"There was no pretending. I really didn't know until you told me."

"Indeed! And where did you think yourself? In Australia?"

"I had no idea. If you had told me I was in Australia I should have believed you. I have been traveling so high above the earth that the upper ether went to my head--and legs."

"You must have been fast and far, even for a bird man, if you didn't know on which side of the ocean you had landed."

There was a silence:--a silence of doubt and of budding suspicion in the woman's mind.

"Listen, Ruth. I _have_ been far and fast, even for a bird man. I will tell you all about it later, if you don't mind. If I told you now, you would think me crazier, if possible, than when I asked those questions. And I shouldn't blame you. My story would seem as fantastic as if I had been around the world in a night, or to another planet. What I have done--where I have been is--is--so impossible that you would be a very credulous person to believe it. But later I will tell you all--everything--please consider me in my right mind."

"In your right mind! Why, Drowsy, you were never in your right mind! So I should believe anything you told me--unless it was something easy or natural, like other people. You were always doing impossible things and thinking impossible thoughts--a most disturbing boy. I remember I always felt responsible for you. You wanted the moon--even then."

"And now, a full-fledged lunatic, I have just come from the moon!"

"I have no doubt you think so. And you were always reaching up to pick a star. Yes, you _were_ a trial."

Cyrus laughed. "Will you do me a favor?"

"Depends on what it is."

"Just a little one?"

"Probably not. But what is it?"

"You remember our wedding at the Unitarian Church, away back in that enchanted past?"

"Yes."

"Well, just consider that ceremony binding."

"Now you are getting crazy again."

"No, I was never saner."

"Very likely, but you are crazy now. Why, Drowsy, being only a man, you don't realize how lucky we are that it was not binding!"