The Happy Failure

A STORY OF THE RIVER HUDSON

The appointment was that I should meet my elderly uncle at the riverside, precisely at nine in the morning. The skiff was to be ready, and the apparatus to be brought down by his grizzled old black man. As yet, the nature of the wonderful experiment remained a mystery to all but the projector.

I was first on the spot. The village was high up the river, and the inland summer sun was already oppressively warm. Presently I saw my uncle advancing beneath the trees, hat off, and wiping his brow; while far behind struggled poor old Yorpy, with what seemed one of the gates of Gaza on his back.

“Come, hurrah, stump along, Yorpy!” cried my uncle, impatiently turning round every now and then.

Upon the black’s staggering up to the skiff, I perceived that the great gate of Gaza was transformed into a huge, shabby, oblong box, hermetically sealed. The sphinx-like blankness of the box quadrupled the mystery in my mind.

“Is this the wonderful apparatus,” said I in amazement. “Why, it’s nothing but a battered old dry-goods box, nailed up. And is this the thing, uncle, that is to make you a million of dollars ere the year be out? What a forlorn-looking, lack-lustre, old ash-box it is.”

“Put it into the skiff!” roared my uncle to Yorpy, without heeding my boyish disdain. “Put it in, you grizzled-headed cherub—put it in carefully, carefully! If that box bursts, my everlasting fortune collapses.”

“Bursts?—collapses?” cried I, in alarm. “It ain’t full of combustibles? Quick, let me go to the further end of the boat!”

“Sit still, you simpleton!” cried my uncle again. “Jump in, Yorpy, and hold on to the box like grim death while I shove off. Carefully! carefully! you dunderheaded black! Mind t’other side of the box, I say! Do you mean to destroy the box?”

“Duyvel take te pox!” muttered old Yorpy, who was a sort of Dutch African. “De pox has been my cuss for de ten long ‘ear.”

“Now, then, we’re off—take an oar, youngster; you, Yorpy, clinch the box fast. Here we go now. Carefully! carefully! You, Yorpy, stop shaking the box! Easy! there’s a big snag. Pull now. Hurrah! deep water at last! Now give way, youngster, and away to the island.”

“The island!” said I. “There’s no island hereabouts.”

“There is ten miles above the bridge, though,” said my uncle, determinately.

“Ten miles off! Pull that old dry-goods box ten miles up the river in this blazing sun?”

“All that I have to say,” said my uncle, firmly, “is that we are bound to Quash Island.”

“Mercy, uncle! if I had known of this great long pull of ten mortal miles in this fiery sun, you wouldn’t have juggled me into the skiff so easy. What’s in that box?—paving-stones? See how the skiff settles down under it. I won’t help pull a box of paving-stones ten miles. What’s the use of pulling ‘em?”

“Look you, simpleton,” quoth my uncle, pausing upon his suspended oar. “Stop rowing, will ye! Now then, if you don’t want to share in the glory of my experiment; if you are wholly indifferent to halving its immortal renown; I say, sir, if you care not to be present at the first trial of my Great Hydraulic-Hydrostatic Apparatus for draining swamps and marshes, and converting them, at the rate of one acre the hour, into fields more fertile than those of the Genesee; if you care not, I repeat, to have this proud thing to tell—in far future days, when poor old I shall have been long dead and gone, boy—to your children and your children’s children; in that case, sir, you are free to land forthwith.”

“Oh, uncle! I did not mean—”

“No words, sir! Yorpy, take his oar, and help pull him ashore.”

“But, my dear uncle; I declare to you that—”

“Not a syllable, sir; you have cast open scorn upon the Great Hydraulic-Hydrostatic Apparatus. Yorpy, put him ashore, Yorpy. It’s shallow here again. Jump out, Yorpy, and wade with him ashore.”

“Now, my dear, good, kind uncle, do but pardon me this one time, and I will say nothing about the apparatus.”