Kitabı oku: «Rancho Del Muerto and Other Stories of Adventure from «Outing» by Various Authors», sayfa 9
ANTAEUS, By Frank M. Bicknell
LATE one night, after having been a week out of town, I was returning home by a short cut across fields, when, on coming upon the street again, I found my path barred by a huge, hulking fellow, whose unexpected appearance startled me not a little. This was my introduction to Antaeus, whose better acquaintance I was to make later under rather peculiar circumstances. Antaeus was not a highway robber, but a highway roller, and when he first confronted me he was drawn up beside the road, enjoying an elephantine slumber after his hard day’s labor – being, despite his formidable aspect, quiescent and inoffensive.
I am not sure that it is usual to confer upon steam-rollers the dignity of a name, but my friend had one, and I read it on the neat, black-lettered brass plate affixed to the side of his boiler, near the smoke-stack. This, I take it, was the nearest practicable approach to hanging a locket about his neck that could be managed, and I have always felt grateful to his unknown sponsors for their little act of consideration.
I cannot think of Antaeus otherwise than as a creature – not simply as a creation – as a reasoning and responsible being, rather than as a docile, slavish piece of mechanism; but to the unimaginative he seemed to be under the domination of a tolerably clean specimen of humanity whom I shall call the Driver.
It was nearly a fortnight after our first meeting when I next saw Antaeus, for he was occupied in parts of the town remote from that in which I lived. I heard him occasionally, however, as he passed through the neighborhood after dark, en route for another field of labor, or propelling his weary weight toward the shed under which he was lodged for his Sunday’s rest. On such occasions, when I heard him lumbering by, I used to fancy he was taking an after-supper promenade and puffing a meditative cigar as he went along.
At length, after he had come several times for pleasure, or his own convenience, he made us a professional call and buckled down to work at repairing a strip of street which had long stood in need! of his services. Antaeus was with us for several weeks and during his stay I became, in a measure, “chummy” with the Driver, from whom I learned various interesting facts about my muscular friend.
Antaeus was a “fifteen-tonner,” and his market price was $4,000; he was about sixteen feet long by seven wide at his widest part; he consumed from three to four hundred pounds of coal per diem; his strength was equal to that of more horses than I can recollect; he came down upon the dust at the rate of two tons weight per foot in width; and, when put to his best, he could settle into what was intended to be its final resting place about two thousand square yards of new road material per day of ten hours. As regarded wheels he was tricycular, that is, he rested upon one roller in front and two behind, the former being also used for steering purposes. He had two small coal-bunkers in the rear, a reasonably commodious space, with a spring seat, for the Driver, and a good-sized awning overhead. He worked under a low pressure of I forget just how many pounds of steam, and when traveling for pleasure could do rather more miles a day than could a crack trotter per hour when put to his best paces.
These particulars I learned during the first week that Antaeus was busied in our neighborhood. It was thus that I took the preliminary steps toward making his acquaintance and came to be on pleasant speaking terms with him, as it were. For the subsequent intimacy between Antaeus and myself, neither he nor I were wholly responsible.
A young lady had appeared at the house across the way. She was pretty, but I noticed her more particularly on account of the seemingly boundless capabilities of her wardrobe. She had a fresh gown for every new day, or at least, in the course of the first fortnight she had displayed a series of fourteen charming costumes, which I could no more hope to describe than could a North Greenland Eskimo to write an intelligent treatise on the flora of the torrid zone. I sat at my window, not too near, every morning when she came out of doors, and admired her through a spy-glass. This may appear like a piece of impertinence – perhaps it was – but I shall urge in my defence the fact that the street between us was nearly a hundred feet wide, and our two houses were set so far back that even by using my comparatively short-sighted little telescope, I could not bring her much nearer than we might actually have been without its aid in a more crowded neighborhood.
One afternoon I stood talking with the Driver, while Antaeus was awaiting the deposit of more material by two tip-carts which were attached to his service, when she passed on the sidewalk, and I imagined she glanced at me with a certain degree of interest, as if she recalled having seen me before – or was it Antaeus who was the more worthy object of’ her attention? Had I dared I should have smiled a little – merely a vague, sketchy, tentative smile – but, hardly thinking it prudent, I resisted the temptation and tried, as the photographers put it, to look natural; with the probable result of looking only cross. After having been her neighbor for more than two weeks it seemed as if I ought to have the right to speak, but proper consideration for les convenances forbade. It was vacation season, I was alone in the house, and, there being no womankind to make the necessary advances, I knew not how long it might be ere I could be formally introduced.
While I was meditating upon this state of affairs – peculiarly unfortunate for me – she walked on and disappeared around a corner. A few minutes later the fire-alarm bell sounded the number of a box near by, and presently our beautiful fire-engine, all glittering with gold and silver plate, the just pride of the town, dashed rather noisily by. At sight of this brilliant appearance Antaeus gave vent to a species of snort and started up as if to follow, but naturally his lumbering pace was no match for the swiftness of the other machine, and from the first he was left hopelessly in the rear. I went off to see where the fire was – it proved to be of small account – and forgot Antaeus entirely until that night, when he recalled himself to my mind by figuring in an odd and whimsical dream.
The scene I have just described was reproduced in part, the Driver, however, being eliminated from it. I thought I was standing beside Antaeus when the young lady appeared, only to disappear. As she went I sighed regretfully, whereupon something happened which ought to have surprised me, and would have done so anywhere else than in a dream. As if in sympathy with me, Antaeus heaved a sigh also – a most ponderous one – and thus addressed me:
“I can understand your feelings,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice. “You are longing for what seems the unattainable. Alas! so am I. We might mingle our tears,” he went on, beginning to exude moisture around the gauges; “or better still,” he added, as if struck by an idea, “perhaps we can be of assistance to each other.”
“In what way?” I asked, dubiously.
“I might help you to know her if you would help me to an acquaintance with the charming Electra.”
Intuitively I divined that Electra must be the steam fire-engine. Big, brawny Antaeus was in love! The ludicrousness of the notion did not strike me then as it did afterward. On the contrary, it seemed to be one of the most natural things imaginable.
“Yes,” he said, in response to my thoughts, “I am passionately enamored of her. I desire unutterably to gain her friendship, her esteem, her love – even though she may scorn me. I realize that her station in life is far above mine. I am only a plodder, while she is – Did you see her pass me like a flash of light this afternoon? Was she not entrancing, enthralling, irresistible! Ah, me! when she bestows her love it will be upon one of those fast, dashing railway fellows, I dare say. Yet I should like her to know that I am her friend, that I would risk any danger, that I would go through the torments of – of the repair shop, that I would give my last puff to serve her. I may be ugly and slow-going, and awkward and ungainly – Do you think I am so very ungainly, that is, for one in my walk of life?” he broke off, in rather piteous query.
“Not at all,” I hastened to assure him; “when we consider your great adaptability to your – your vocation, I am sure your form would be considered remarkably symmetrical.”
“Thank you!” he exclaimed, gratefully, “and whether or not such be the case, at least I am honest and straightforward and true-hearted, though I do blow my own whistle in saying it.”
“You certainly are.”
“Then I trust I am not too aspiring in wishing to be numbered among Electra’s friends. I hope she would not be ashamed to acknowledge me if she met me in the street.”
“I should hope not, indeed,” I murmured, when he paused for an encouraging word.
“Shall we call it a bargain, then, that I aid you to an introduction to the young lady, your neighbor, and in return you so contrive as to bring about a meeting between Electra and me?”
“A bargain it is, with all my heart,” I assented, grasping and shaking the handle of his throttle-lever, “and the sooner the better for the carrying out of it.”
“Very good; call on me to-morrow, and I will see what can be done for you.”
“Shall – shall I come in business hours?” I asked, hesitatingly, thinking he might possibly prefer to attend to the matter between twelve and one.
“Of course,” he answered, “in business hours, certainly. I mean business, and I hope you do.”
I hastened to set his mind at rest on that point, and, after promising to come on the following afternoon, I shook his handle again, which had the effect of starting him off, and so our interview ended.
When I awoke in the morning, my dream seemed so vividly real that I resolved to risk making myself ridiculous in my own eyes and to keep my appointment with Antaeus. Accordingly, after lunch, I strolled out toward the section of highway where he was at work. Soon I caught sight of a light-complexioned wagon standing on the opposite side of the street. Attached to it were two plump, blonde ponies, garbed in russet harness, and, on the front seat, reins in hand, talking with an acquaintance upon the sidewalk, sat my young lady.
The natty vehicle had one other occupant, a sooty-faced pug, sitting up very straight on the cushion beside his mistress, with quite the air of a personage of distinction. In front of the ponies’ noses was a horse of another breed, a four-legged structure of wood, upholding a sign-board, upon which was painted in glaring letters the word, “Danger,” and in smaller ones, “No Passing; Steam Roller Running.”
Upon this scene presently entered an important actor – I might call him the heavy villian – Antaeus, grumbling, groaning, puffing and perspiring in his efforts to consolidate the various ingredients for a durable roadbed that had been laid down in his path. As he drew nearer he gave utterance to a significant “ahem!” – as I thought – by way of calling my attention to what was about to happen. Apparently he was going to keep his part of our agreement. A suspicion of what might be his idea began to dawn upon me. He purposed frightening the ponies, an incipient runaway would ensue, and I should be enabled to play the part of heroic rescuer. There were no very original features in the scheme, but it struck me as being quite practicable nevertheless; consequently I was somewhat surprised and grieved when nothing of the nature of what I had anticipated took place.
But Antaeus was more subtle than I. He wished to avoid the appearance of collusion between us, which might have been given by the execution of the rudimentary strategem I have outlined. (Or perhaps the real explanation of it is that he knew the fat little beasts of ponies were of too phlegmatic a temperament to be disturbed by a bugaboo.) At any rate they only blinked sleepily at Antaeus and then went off into a peaceful doze, entirely unmoved by his nearness. With the black-vis-aged pug, however, it was quite otherwise. He regarded the monster as an interloper, a trespasser, and he began to bark at him angrily. Perceiving that his scoldings had no effect, he lost his temper entirely, and, jumping down from the carriage seat, ran forward toward the advancing engine and continued his barking with redoubled force and fury. His mistress’ attention was now aroused, and, seeing how persistently he put himself in the track of the roller, she became uneasy. She called to him persuasively, authoritatively, beseechingly, but he paid her no heed. Apparently he had more faith in himself than had King Canute when he gave his memorable lesson to his courtiers by the seashore.
From his position in the rear the Driver could not see the dog, and I doubt if he clearly understood the situation, for he made no attempt to avert the threatened catastrophe. The ridiculous animal stood his ground and kept up his remonstrances against the invader; the alarmed young lady threw an eloquently imploring look at me; and Antaeus came on, stolid, grim and impassive. Meanwhile, strangely enough – as it seems to me now – I remained inactive until my coadjutor, justly irritated, suddenly growled out what I took to mean:
“Come! come; stupid, now is your time; why don’t you bestir yourself?”
Then I awakened to a full sense of my responsibilities and opportunities, and rushing to the fore, seized the rash and obstinate pug by the scruff of the neck and restored him, rescued from the Juggernaut, to the arms of his grateful mistress.
Thus did Antaeus fulfill his share of our agreement.
This little incident broke the ice. In less than a week the young lady and I knew each other almost intimately. It transpired that we were in fact old acquaintances. That is to say, she remembered me when I was at home during one college vacation, and she hoped I had not forgotten the small miss who used to come over and play tea-party with my sister. I replied that I should hope not, indeed, and mentally took myself to task for not being surer about it. The boy of seventeen is less likely to be impressed with the girl of eight than is the young man of twenty-eight with the maiden of nineteen. I was positive that at the end of another eleven years I should have had no trouble in recalling her to mind.
I am not a tennis enthusiast, but I will admit that my white flannel suit had a chance to contrast itself with the velvety green of the lawn across the way rather frequently after that. It was a convenient and plausible excuse for being with her a good deal.
The pleasure of her society was worth some physical discomfort, and I couldn’t complain if I did feel for a week or more as if I had been given a sound drubbing. One day, after we had finished a series of games – in which mine was second-best record – who should appear, laboriously rumbling by, but my well-nigh forgotten friend Antaeus.
“What an uncouth piece of mechanism that is!” she exclaimed, turning to look at him – “a sort of caricature of a locomotive, one might say. A veritable snail for traveling, too, isn’t it?”
“Yes; his – I mean it’s – best speed does not exceed five miles an hour, I am told. A man might walk as fast as that with a little exertion.”
“I wonder if it is a pleasant mode of riding – in a steam-roller?” she said, half musing, her gaze still resting on Antaeus. “At least one would have plenty of leisure for viewing the scenery along the way. I should rather like to try a short ride on it.”
“Should you, really,” I asked, doubting whether or not she was in earnest.
“Yes, indeed, I should.” If she had been half in jest before she was serious now. “It would be a new experience.”
“Hardly an agreeable one for a lady, though,” I commented.
“Oh, that would be a secondary consideration,” she returned with a shrug. “I should value the experience as an experience, and I should be glad to have it to put on my list.”
I looked inquisitive and she proceeded to explain.
“I keep a diary – not a regulation school girl’s diary, in which one feels bound to write something every single day of the year, whether there is anything worth recording or not – but a collection of memoranda in which I take a good deal of satisfaction. Mine is a classified diary and is contained in about a dozen different books which began as mere covers with nothing between. By putting in leaves when there was occasion the volumes grew until now several of them have attained to a very respectable thickness.”
“Might I ask, without indiscretion, for a hint as to the nature of their contents, or would that be – ”
“Certainly; there is no secret about them. In fact I have been known to show their pages to certain of my friends, and, to be quite honest, I am rather proud of them. As far as I can recollect now, they are labeled with these titles: ‘Books I have read, Places I have visited, Notable personages I have seen, Odd or eccentric characters I have met, Strange sights I have seen, Curious dishes of which I have eaten, Rides I have taken – ”
“Do you mean,” I interposed, “that every time you take a ride you enter an account of it in your collection?”
“I mean that whenever I ride in or on any unusual sort of conveyance I make a note of it. That particular book dates far back into my childhood. The idea of starting it was suggested to me by a ride I took on a tame ostrich in South Africa.”
My increased respect for a young lady who had ridden upon an ostrich near, if not actually in his native desert, will be understood by the untraveled.
“You have seen something of the world,” I remarked.
“Yes,” she admitted; “I have been about with my father a great deal. An uncle of mine, who abhors what he calls globe-trotting, tells people, with a look of mock commiseration on his face, that I have been everywhere except at the North Pole and in a Trappist monastery. A slight exaggeration that, and yet not so very far from the truth either. I have visited most of the inhabited countries of the globe, I think, and I have had a chance to try riding in a good many peculiar conveyances. I have ridden on an elephant in India, on a dromedary in Egypt, in a sort of horse-litter in Persia, in a man-carriage in Japan, in a sledge on bare ground at Funchal, on a log-raft down the Rhine, on an Indian’s back in Mexico, in the cab of a locomotive on the Southern Pacific, in a fast newspaper train out of New York, on an open car moved by gravity – and moved very fast, too – on that wonderful railroad in Peru, on a small landslide among the White Mountains, in a dwelling-house being moved through the streets of this town, in – but I will spare you further enumeration.‘’
“I hope, however, that you will let me read the catalogue for myself some time. I no longer wonder that so successful a collector should be eager for an additional specimen. I happen to have some little acquaintance with the man who runs our steam-roller; perhaps I could arrange to have your wish for a ride gratified.”
“Oh, if you only could!” she exclaimed, looking so hopefully expectant that I secretly vowed the thing should come to pass or I would know the most unanswerable of reasons why.
I had learned that Antaeus was neither a native nor a naturalized citizen of our town, but that he owed allegiance to a firm of contractors in a distant city, whose delegate and sole representative here was the Driver; consequently if I could prevail upon him to lend Antaeus I need apprehend no interference from the town authorities.
I began upon the Driver the next forenoon. My persuasiveness took a conventional form, for, not being gifted with an oily tongue, I was forced to trust for success in a great measure upon my chance of stupefying the Driver’s conscience with the fumes of several superfine cigars. I spent about two hours in company with Antaeus, taking many turns up and down the street with him for the special purpose of observing his manners and customs. With the advice and consent of his guardian I learned to start, to stop, to reverse, and to steer to my own satisfaction. I had intended to broach the important question that day, but, fearing I might not yet have sufficiently blunted the Driver’s moral sensibilities, my courage failed at the critical moment and I permitted myself the expensive luxury of procrastination.
The next day I found the task no easier, and so put it off again, but on the day after I awakened to the fact that delays are dangerous and made the fateful plunge. I frankly told the Driver the whole story, under the belief that he would be less likely to refuse the petition of a lady than one made in my own name.
If he had suspected all the while, from my persistent attentions, that I had an axe to grind he did not mortify me by showing it. He accepted my fifth cigar as he had my first, with an air of supposing it to be offered from motives of the most disinterested friendliness.
I did not meet with success in the outset. The Driver had grave doubts as to the propriety of “loaning” a steam-roller. Had he been a Frenchman he might reasonably have urged that, like a tooth-brush, ça ne se prête pas. However, I overcame his scruples in the end, and, probably in the belief that “if it were done ‘twere well it were done quickly,” he agreed to deliver Antaeus into my charge that evening.
Accordingly, not long after sunset, I went across the street and called for the young lady. I realized fully that her father and mother would not have approved of our escapade, but they were absent from home and I tried to believe it was not my duty to stand toward her in loco parentium. She was a bit wilful too, and I feared my remonstrances would do no good unless I carried them to the extreme of refusing my assistance, which, after my ready offer of it, would have been uncivil and unkind.
At an unfrequented spot, on a broad highway, near the outskirts of the town, Antaeus and the Driver – the former under head of steam, and both smoking – were awaiting us. We met them there by appointment at nine o’clock. After many instructions and cautions touching the fire, the water, the steam, the use of the levers, the necessity of keeping a sharp lookout ahead, etc., the Driver left me in sole command, as proud as a boy with his first bicycle.
“You find you have got into rather close quarters here, don’t you?” said I, as I perched myself upon the high seat, from which the machine was most conveniently directed.
“The passenger accommodations might be more spacious, but all things considered I hardly think I shall complain,” laughingly returned my companion, who had seated herself on one of the coal-boxes behind me. “I took the precaution not to wear my best frock, so I can stow myself away in small compass without fear of damage.”
Having in mind the trouble I had taken, her delight in the novelty of her situation was highly gratifying to me. She eagerly asked about the functions of the various levers, try-cocks, and gauges, and insisted upon being allowed to experiment with them, as well as with the steering gear, herself. The knowledge, she said, might be useful to her in the future. Antaeus proved to be entirely docile and allowed himself to be guided as easily as a well-broken flesh and blood horse. The big fly-wheel revolved, the fussy little piston pumped up and down with an ado that seemed absurd considering the slow progress resulting, the steam fretted and hissed, the three massive rollers bore with all their might upon the hard surface of the macadam, and thus crunching, clanking, thumping and rattling, we sluggishly made our way into the obscurity of the night.
By and by, in the course of our journey, we came to a gentle rise, the ascent of which made Antaeus puff rather laboriously. For a moment my passenger looked slightly uneasy. “Why does it do that?” she asked.
“The exertion of going up hill makes him breathe a little hard, naturally,” I answered, reassuring her. “He is feeling in fine condition, though,” I added, inspecting the steam-gauge by the light of my lantern; “the effect of a plentiful supply of oats, doubtless.”
“You speak of it as he,” she said, questioningly.
“Certainly; why not?” I retorted. “He seems to me unequivocally masculine.”
“True,” she assented; “still in personifying inanimate objects, are they not more frequently made members of the other sex?”
“Undoubtedly they are, but it strikes me as a ridiculous custom – particularly in the case of great machines. No engine, however big, black or ungainly, but it must be spoken of by the feminine pronoun. It is hardly a compliment to your sex, is it? Think of the incongruity of putting, for instance, a huge steamboat, named for the president of the company, into the feminine gender!”
She laughed at my fancy, but her merriment did not wound my sensibilities. “So it’s – I beg pardon, his– name is Antaeus, is it?”
“Yes, in honor of that old giant – do you recollect? – whom Hercules overcame.”
“By lifting him quite off the ground, because as often as he came in contact with Mother Earth his strength was renewed? Yes, I recall the story, and I can see a certain propriety in the name. I rather think this fellow, if he were to be lifted off the ground, could scarcely use his great strength to advantage. Imagine him turned upon his back like a huge beetle, kicking about frantically into the air to no purpose!”
“Undoubtedly he gets his grip from his contact with the earth,” said I. “As a flying-machine he would hardly be a success.”
“Doesn’t it strike you that he is almost unnecessarily deliberate?” she queried, presently, with a slight show of impatience; evidently the novelty of the adventure was beginning to wear off.
“More so than usual for the reason that we are ascending an incline; but you must remember that Antaeus was not built for speed,” returned I, defending my friend.
“Evidently not. He belongs to the plodders – the slow and sure sort. He would be entered for a race in the tortoise class probably. Fancy an absconding cashier trying to escape from justice in a steam-roller! It would be funny, wouldn’t it?”
I agreed with her that it would be very funny. “Or imagine an eloping couple fleeing before an irate father on such a conveyance!” I suggested, with a consciousness of blushing in the dark for the audacity of the conceit.
“Now, that is good!” she exclaimed, seizing on my idea with an eagerness that showed how far her thoughts were from taking the direction in which mine had dared to stray. “What a situation for a modern realistic, sensational drama!”
“It might be worked up into something rather impressive, I should think. In these days of bringing steamboats, pile-drivers, fire-engines, real water, and railway trains in upon the stage I don’t know why a steam-roller might not be given a chance.”
“Why not?” she cried, waxing enthusiastic. “Picture the scene. Enter lovers on ‘steam-roller, followed by incensed father in – in – ”
“In an electric-car,” I supplied experimentally.
“Pshaw! don’t be foolish!” she exclaimed thanklessly. “Followed by father in a light gig, drawn by a spirited horse. Overtakes lovers – demands his daughter – young man respectfully declines to give her up. Old gentleman prepares to come and take her. Is about to descend from gig when steamroller whistles, spirited horse begins to prance, he is obliged to keep tight hold of reins – ”
“Very good!” I put in approvingly. “Stern parent threatens direst vengeance, horse cavorts alarmingly, parent rages unavailingly, resolute lover pushes throttle wide open with one hand and retains firm grip upon the helm with the other.”
“While the devoted loveress, with her own dainty hands, shovels in coal and encourages him to stand firm – ”
“By the way, that reminds me of something,” I interrupted and, getting off my elevated seat, I bent down and opened the furnace-door; “I rather think I should have given Antaeus his supper before now.”
In truth, I had neglected the fire altogether too long. I hastily threw in more coal, but it was already too late to avert the consequences of my forgetfulness. The pressure of steam was diminishing and continued to diminish in spite of all my efforts to prevent it. Back fell the indicator upon the dial, and more and more slowly worked the machinery as the power behind it became less and less.
“We shall not reach the top of the hill at the present rate,” remarked my companion. “The vital spark appears to be in danger of extinction, so to speak.”
“In very great danger,” I sorrowfully assented as, with one last feeble effort, Antaeus wearily gave up the struggle.
“Nor is that the worst of it,” I added, filled with a sudden apprehension.
“What do you mean?” she asked, disquieted by my manner, though not yet divining the inevitable outcome of the existing state of affairs.
“You had better descend to terra firma unless you want to go back down hill faster than you came up,” I replied significantly.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, comprehending the danger.
“Yes; the attraction of gravitation is going to take us back a deal faster than Antaeus ever traveled before. Shall I help you out?”
“Can’t you put on the brakes?”
“There are none; the builders of this machine did not foresee such a contingency as this. It was not to be supposed that Antaeus ever would fall into the unskillful hands of a bungling, blundering amateur,” said I, calling up hard names for myself from out of the depths of my humiliation.
“Don’t reproach yourself,” she begged; “it is I who am to be blamed.”
“Shall I not help you out before it is too late?” I interposed, as Antaeus began to gather way.
“What are you going to do,” she demanded.
“Oh, I shall stick to the ship,” I answered grimly.
“But you will get hurt if you do,” she objected.
“Antaeus will get hurt if I don’t. Come!”
“No; I shall stay on board, too,” she declared heroically. “Now don’t try and persuade me to desert, for I shall not do it. Can’t I be of some use?”
