Escape to the World's Fair (2 page)

S
ECOND THOUGHTS ON THE ROAD

“W
alking?
” Jack repeated. “You mean, just keep following these tracks? On foot?”

The five of them had picked up the supplies that had scattered in the crash and were now trudging down the bank to the edge of the creek. Alexander led the way, carrying the water jar.

“Sure,” Alexander said as he knelt to refill the jar in the creek. “Remember what Ned said about these rails? This is supposed to be a back road that goes halfway to Oklahoma.”

“We might as well keep going,” Frances added.

“Sure,” Jack replied, though
sure
was the last thing he felt right now.

When he reached the creek he bent down and plunged his hands into the stream. They'd been smarting like crazy ever since he'd used them to break his fall in the crash—he'd already had a blister on one palm from working the handcar pump handles. For a few moments he tried to soothe his hands in the cool water, feeling the chill of the stream creep up his tired arms.

“You coming?” Eli called.

Jack looked up to see that the other four were making their way over the creek, using stepping-stones to cross the water. Alexander was already starting to climb up the opposite bank. Jack sighed and got up to follow his friends.

Soon they were all walking alongside the rail line, a single set of tracks that ran past a muddy meadow and stretched on as far as they could see.

“How far is halfway to Oklahoma?” Harold asked, looking up at his sister.

“Shush, Harold,” Frances replied. “We need to concentrate on where we're going.”

After that, nobody else said anything for a while. It was hot, and sometimes, when they passed swaths of taller grass, gnats and mosquitoes would drift around them, stinging their arms.

Jack was glad that the walk was easy, at least. You didn't even have to hold your head up as long as you kept your eyes on the tracks. He wasn't in the mood to do anything besides stare at his feet. But the less he had to think about where he was going, the more he thought about everything else. About everyone . . .

“What's with you, Jack?” Frances kept looking over her shoulder at him as she walked, her face full of concern.

“Yeah, what's wrong?” Eli asked.

“Nothing,” Jack said. He didn't want to talk about what was on his mind. But his steps grew slower and slower.

A few yards up ahead, Alexander stopped and turned. “Don't you want to keep going?” he asked Jack.

Harold came over and peered up at him. “We're going to find Wanderville again, Jack,” he said, his voice hopeful. “I know we are.”

Wanderville
—
the town they'd created themselves. First they'd built it in the woods in Kansas, where they'd escaped from the orphan trains and the Pratcherds' work ranch. Then, when they'd found a shelter for a while at Reverend Carey's farm in Missouri, Wanderville was behind the barn.

Wanderville could be anywhere, they'd decided, but it wasn't everywhere. It had to be a place where they felt truly safe. A place where other kids could come live, too.
All kids in need of freedom,
Alexander had said. And they were hoping that in California they could build Wanderville in a permanent spot.

Only it didn't seem possible now. Not to Jack. Not at all.

He clenched his blistered hand to try to keep it from stinging. He looked down at Harold, and then over at Eli and Alexander and Frances, their shoes and stockings caked with mud.
Walking,
their only possessions the grimy clothes on their backs, a few meager provisions stowed in a flour sack, and a cracked jar of creek water.

“I don't know about Wanderville,” Jack found himself saying suddenly. “Or California.” He couldn't stop the words from rushing out, all his awful thoughts. “Maybe we won't get there. Maybe it's just hopeless.”

Harold's face fell and he stepped away from Jack.

Alexander was incredulous. “How can you say that?
Why?
”

Jack took a deep breath and picked up his pace. “All we want is a better life, but things just keep getting worse for us.” He paused to wipe some extra mud off his shoe, then continued. “We keep trying to save other kids. But—but it's no use. Because we . . .”

He was saying
we,
but deep down he felt like it was really
his
job to save other kids. He'd wanted to rescue all the kids on the orphan trains and all the kids who'd been sent to work at the Pratcherds'. And before that, back in New York, he'd wanted to save Daniel from the fire at the factory. His older brother, Daniel . . .

“We keep losing them,” he said softly.

Jack was striding even faster now, kicking at the gravel between the railroad ties. The other four hurried to keep up with him.

“But Jack,” Frances began, “we
did
save other kids. We rescued six kids from the Pratcherds. . . .”

He shook his head. “And where are they now? Quentin and Lorenzo ran off to join some hoboes. Then the rest of them—we lost them, too.”

It still stung to think about how much bigger their group had been. When they'd first stayed at the Careys' farm there had been eight of them. But Sarah, Anka, Nicky, and George had decided they'd rather live in Reverend Carey's big house than in Wanderville.

“Look, we're better off without them,” Alexander said, a bit defensively.

“Are we?” Jack asked. “Look at us, limping along in the middle of nowhere. We can't even save ourselves!”

Nobody said anything for a moment; they all just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

It was Eli who finally broke the silence. “Well, you saved
me,
” he said.

Eli had lived in one of the shanties in back of the Careys' place. His father was a sharecropper who drank too much and had a terrible temper that he'd take out on Eli sometimes. So when Jack, Alexander, Frances, and Harold had left the farm, Eli had joined them.

Jack relaxed enough to manage a half smile. “Glad you're here, Eli,” he said.

“Come on,” Frances insisted. “It's not completely hopeless, is it? How do you think
I
felt when we crashed Ned's treasure? But you don't see
me
giving up, do you?”

Jack thought she had a point. But things still felt pretty dismal.

Alexander was walking right alongside Jack now. “We've just got to keep going. Our luck will change, Jack, I know it will. We'll find other ways to travel. There will be other kids we can bring to Wanderville. Other people who will need our help.”

“Like that man over there,” Harold said, matter-of-factly.

“What?” Frances said. “
What
man?”

“In the motorcar.” Harold pointed across the meadow.

There, in the distance, was a big green-and-black touring car. There was no road in sight, yet oddly the car sat in the middle of a field, its engine silent, its two front wheels sunk into mud.

The five children stopped short. “What is an
automobile
doing out
here
?” Alexander wondered aloud.

“It's stuck!” Harold declared. “And the man driving it is looking for help.”

Jack squinted at the far-off figure in the car. Harold was right: The man was standing up in the front seat, looking all around. The man turned in their direction and stopped, as if he could see them.

Uh-oh,
Jack thought. The last thing they needed right now was another grown-up asking them questions.

“Harold, what are you
doing
?” Frances exclaimed. Jack turned to see that Harold was waving his arms to get the man's attention. The man waved back.

“Look, we can't just go talking to strangers,” Alexander warned.

But Harold had already climbed over the tracks and was running through the meadow, heading straight for the man in the motorcar.

T
HE MOTORCAR IN THE MUD

“T
hat's my sister,” Harold was saying to the man by the time Frances reached her brother's side. She and the others had run after Harold, but they hadn't been able to stop him from talking to the stranger, who had climbed out of the car and was using a cloth to dust off one of the fenders.

“And these are my friends,” Harold continued, motioning to Jack and Alexander and Eli. “We escaped from the orphan trains, except for Eli, who—”

“
Harold!
” Frances snapped. She turned to the man. “I'm so sorry, sir, my little brother likes to make up stories and—”

The fellow held up his palm. “Say no more, mademoiselle. I mind my own business.” He tipped his hat and nodded at Frances and the boys. “Name's Philander Zogby, and I humbly solicit your assistance.”

“That means you need help, right?” Harold asked.

Mr. Zobgy nodded. Frances couldn't help noticing how dandyish he appeared—his cap was checkered, his suit striped, and he had a mustache that drew up into points like a bull's horns. But under his mustache she could see that he was young, not much older than eighteen or nineteen, and it was hard for her to think of him as
Mister
Zogby.

He gave one of the front tires of the car a soft kick. “As you can see, my Cleveland Tonneau has found misadventure,” he explained. “I've been heading to St. Louis, on my way to the Fair, but these country roads aren't made for motoring.

“I tried to take a shortcut through this nice meadow, but it seems meadows aren't made for motoring, either.”

Frances and the others bent down by the front of the car for a closer look.

The mud in the meadow wasn't too wet, but it was soft, and the motorcar's front wheels had sunk down into it, the tires forming two deep ruts.

Alexander straightened up. “I don't know, sir. That . . . Cleveland thing of yours is awfully big.”

And
nice,
Frances thought. The car had brass fittings on the headlamps and shiny upholstered seats. It looked pretty out of place in the middle of a meadow.
Too
out of place, in fact.

“We can't just
drag
it out,” Alexander continued.

“Of course not!” Zogby said. “But we can put something under the wheels so they don't keep digging into that mud. . . .”

Jack was nodding now. “And then we can push it from the back!” he said.

Jack seemed glad to help this Zogby fellow, Frances noticed. She looked over at the others. Alexander's face was wary—Eli's, too. Harold was busy gazing at the shiny brass edge of the car's front grille.

She didn't trust this fellow in his fancy duds and gaudy motorcar, but he sure looked like he had nickels to spare. Maybe, if they managed to get him out of this jam, he'd help them out, too.

Alexander caught her eye and shrugged. He seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“Well . . . all right,” he said. “Let's get to work.”

Jack and Harold were already collecting twigs and sticks to put under the motorcar, laying them across the ruts in the mud and wedging them under the tires. When they'd gathered as many sticks as they could, Zogby began to work the engine crank.

“Get ready,” he called.

Alexander and Eli and Jack went to the back of the car, while Harold clambered up into the rear seat.

“What are you doing?” Frances scolded. “Get down from there!”

“Er . . . I told him he could give the orders,” Zogby said with a grin as he cranked.

“
What
orders?” she said, but suddenly her voice was drowned out by the chugging engine as it sputtered to life.

“PUSH!” Harold yelled at the top of his lungs.

The three older boys pushed against the back of the car. It rocked forward a bit, then shook as the front wheels struggled to find traction.

“PUSH!” Harold called again, but the wheels still spun in place despite the boys' best efforts.

Frances looked at Zogby, who was now in the driver's seat, fiddling with some valves, and then at her friends. Jack and Eli had dug their heels into the soft ground, while Alexander locked his arms and pressed his hands. She couldn't tell if they were pushing really hard or just making a big show out of pushing. She went over and found a spot next to Alexander.

“We don't need help,” he said, gasping.

“Sure you do,” she said. Then she gave the car a good shove the next time Harold called
PUSH.

They all felt a big
bump,
and then the motorcar lurched forward.

“Excellent!” Zogby shouted.

Jack and Eli whooped with triumph. Frances, meanwhile, grinned at Alexander. He smiled back, though he looked a little sheepish, too.

The car chugged a few yards over to drier ground. “Climb aboard!” Zogby called. “I'll take you back to town!”

“
What?
” Frances cried. It was one thing to help this fellow, but it was another to go off somewhere with him in that automobile. “I don't think this is such a great idea,” she muttered.

“Come on,” Jack whispered. “I think he's all right. And besides, we really ought to find a map soon. Maybe there'll be one in the next town.”

Alexander didn't look as sure as Jack, but Eli was already climbing up into the car, and Harold was practically bouncing with excitement.

“Can I ride in front, Frannie?” he asked.

Frances sighed. “Fine, but you'll have to sit with me.”

A moment later she was perched up on the front seat with Harold and Zogby, while the three boys sat in back. She'd never been in a motorcar before—the seats were almost as high as a buggy's, and the chugging engine made everything shake like a nervous dog. It felt a little like the freight car she'd ridden to Kansas City, but the noise was different—a constant sputtering from the engine that threatened to drown out everything else. In fact, Zogby had to shout over it as he steered the car across the meadow and onto a road.

“WHICH TOWN?” he called. “WHERE ARE YOU HEADED?”

Frances turned back to look at the boys, but Jack only shrugged.

“ANIMAL, RIGHT?” Zogby shouted. “ANIMAL?”

Frances and the boys all exchanged confused looks.
What is he talking about?
But then Eli's face lit up, as if he'd just realized something. “Yes!” he shouted. “Hannibal!”

Suddenly Frances understood, too:
Hannibal.
That was a town in Missouri. She hoped it wasn't far. This Zogby fellow seemed decent enough, but she didn't know how long she could listen to him talk over the engine.

“I WAS HEADING TO ST. LOUIS MYSELF!” he shouted. “FOR THE WORLD'S FAIR! HAVE YOU HEARD?” He looked over at Frances and Harold, who shook their heads.

“THE LOUISIANA PURCHASE EXPOSITION!” he went on. “THE PAPERS SAY IT'S A MARVEL.”

“A
FAIR
?” Harold yelled.

“
MORE
THAN A FAIR,” Zogby shouted back. “IT'S A LAND OF PALACES! THEY BUILT A CITY NEXT TO THE CITY AND IT'S ALL GRAND PALACES! THEY'VE GOT THAT OBSERVATION WHEEL THAT'S TWO HUNDRED FEET HIGH!”

Just then a stiff breeze picked up and filled Frances's ears with wind, and then she could hear only bits and snatches of Zogby's words.

“ELECTRICAL . . . BIGGEST EVER!
 . . .
TEN-MILLION-DOLLAR PIKE! . . . A MILE LONG!”

Frances could only shrug, though she could see that Jack and Eli were leaning forward in the backseat as if trying to catch every word. Finally Zogby pulled over by the side of the road and cut the engine so he could continue.

“. . . and there's an exhibit for nearly every country in the world! And oh, the amusements! You can ride the Golden Chariot or the Fairyland Chutes. Or visit the Ostrich Farm, or the Telegraph Tower, or the Moorish Palace. I hear they've even got a horse on display that can read and write and do sums!”

Frances tried not to roll her eyes. This place sounded loony. And it couldn't be any better than Coney Island back in New York, which had electric lights everywhere and was only really fun until you got sick of the crowds and the smell of fried clams.

Harold, for his part, was nodding at everything Zogby said. “Wow,” he breathed. “Can we come with you to the Fair, Mr. Zogby?”

The young man grinned. “It would be great fun to go, wouldn't it?”

“YES,” Jack and Eli said in unison.

“Except we're going to
California,
” Alexander said sternly. “Remember?”

Harold bounced in his seat. “'Zander! Can we go to the St. Louis Fair first, please? With Mr. Zogby?”

“
Harold!
” Frances scolded. “Mr. Zogby did
not
say he would take us to the World's Fair!” She thought Zogby should know better than to talk about the Fair like that and give a kid like Harold ideas.
Just what is he trying to do, anyway?

Zogby nodded. “Indeed, I said nothing of the sort,” he replied. “Because, as it turns out, I will not be attending after all.” His fingers tapped the steering wheel as if he were thinking. “This trip has had some . . . er, complications, and I realized that it's best if I return to Chicago.”

“Oh,” Harold mumbled.

“Yes, it's a shame,” Zogby said, staring off into the distance. “But perhaps,” he said, turning in his seat to look at all of them, “
you'll
go the World's Fair. You'll go
instead
of me. Go in my place!”