The Mechanical Mind of John Coggin (19 page)

O
N THE GRAY,
glumpen morning of Pludgett Day, two improbable creatures had come to life under the shelter of the big top. A magnificent steam-driven dragon, and a rather obnoxious dog.

“I thought I was destined to scratch my way to glory as a Saint Bernard. This is the wrong color,” Boz griped to Maria. She was stitching an elaborate bundle of corded wool to his costume.

“Listen, Boz,” she said, planting her needle in his false eyebrow, “if you'd like to devise a Saint Bernard costume that will pass the muster of Great-Aunt Beauregard, you go right ahead. But my primary concern is to get Page out of there alive and well.”

“I have every appearance of a sheep with a Rapunzel complex. Does my hair have to be this lengthy?”

“Yes,” Maria said, “because that's what mutts look like. And they don't talk, so be quiet while I finish your headdress.”

“I—”

“Zip it.”

Boz zipped it.

Maria could be forgiven for being a little testy. The last two days had been a litany of hiccups, holdups, and plain exasperation.

To begin with, there had been a right royal battle between Miss Doyle and Colonel Joe.

“You can't send Boz into the workshop,” Colonel Joe had fired at Miss Doyle on their first meeting. “Anyone with two peas for wits will know what he is!”

“I am here to assure you, Colonel, that I am fully capable of anything I set out to do,” Miss Doyle had countered, skewering a wad of his discarded beeswax with the tip of her umbrella and examining it critically. “I'm not sure I can say the same for your family.”

“You, madam, are a . . .” Colonel Joe was spitting brass tacks. “A spoilsport!”

The only way John could keep both parties from going to war was to suggest a temporary truce. The Wayfarers would work on putting the final touches to the dragon float while Maria and Miss Doyle sewed the dog suit. If the sneak attack failed, Colonel Joe and John would bust through the door as per the original scheme.

Needless to say, this compromise made neither party happy.

“Fight with your brains,” Miss Doyle hissed at him constantly, “and you won't go wrong.”

“In times of war,” Colonel Joe insisted on mumbling every hour or so, “walk softly and carry a ruddy big cannon.”

Personally, John was torn. While his brain argued for the practicality of Miss Doyle's plan, his heart was firmly on the side of Colonel Joe. He knew—he just
knew
—that his invention could save his sister.

If, that is, he could get the Wayfarers to stop moaning and finish attaching the wings to the Autopsy.

“I'm only here for the girl,” mumbled Minny.

“I hate paint,” grunted Porcine Pierre.

“My sideburns ache,” pipped Mister Missus Hank.

And yet . . .

Despite the spats and the split seams and the pressure of the too-short hours, things came together. Tasks got done. Progress was made.

So much so that by the time Maria was putting the last touches on Boz's costume, John was feeling a minuscule flutter of hope.

The engine compartment was stocked with coal for the trip into town. The chicken poo pellets were stacked by the feed pipe in readiness for the potential charge. And the float, by the grace of the gods, was finished.

Not only finished, but looking a lot like the fairy-tale dragons of John's fantasies. Coats of silvery-blue paint, very similar to the color of Alligator Dan's chest, covered the scales. Jagged wings were caught in midflight with thin wire ties. A clever lever in the caboose controlled the swish, swish of the forked tail.

But everyone agreed that the real glory was the head. To give the Autopsy riders an unobstructed view of the workshop door, John had created lookout spots in the narrow slits of the eyes. The toothy jaws were clamped shut in grim determination. And there, nestled in the secret hollow of the mouth, Betsy lay sheathed in a red velvet sleeve.

“Hurrah!” Colonel Joe shouted. “We'll give your great-aunt reveille, all right! We'll shake her bed so hard she'll have to ask the bedbugs to hold it together!”

“You won't need to,” Miss Doyle countered, emerging from behind the curtain. “Because we're going to get there first.”

John had to do a double take. The woman of uncommon talents was now a hard-bitten ninety-year-old hag. Her long dress was cinched together with a yellowing apron. Her bottle-cap glasses made her pupils bulge in an amphibian manner. A crocheted hat was jammed firmly on her head.

And there was Boz. Except there he wasn't. Boz had disappeared completely into a snarl of wool coils.

“Will we do?” Miss Doyle rasped. Boz merely panted.

“You're perfect!” said Maria.

“Boz, are you okay in there?” asked John.

Boz barked.

“Good, then we should proceed,” Miss Doyle said, still speaking in a manner John found quite unsettling. “BYOP begins at nine a.m. sharp.”

Giving Boz a pat, Miss Doyle strode past Colonel Joe with a brisk tread and a slight swagger. John's insides turned to jelly when he found Rosinante hitched up to a cart outside the big top. Suddenly, the possibility of failure seemed very real.

“Please be careful.”

Miss Doyle peered at John through distorted glasses. “I'll bring her back, John. I promise.”

But this was not enough for John. He grabbed Boz by his dog collar and led him aside.

“Boz,” he whispered, “are you sure you want to go through with this?”

Boz barked again. John yanked on the collar. “I'm serious. I can still go.”

Boz rose on his hind paws and removed his head. “No, my dear boy. As I said before, this is my mastodon to conquer. Besides,” he added, “we need you in command of the Autopsy.”

“Boz!” Miss Doyle called out. “Whenever your highness is ready.”

Boz raised his left paw and took John's hand. “Ours not to reason why, ours but to do or die.” He shook the hand vigorously. “My dear boy, it's been an honor serving you.”

Replacing his head, Boz clambered up on the wagon seat next to Miss Doyle and sniffed her shoe.

“I'll leave Rosinante by the town limits,” Miss Doyle noted, “and from there we'll proceed on foot to the workshop.”

And with a slap of the reins, they were off, trundling toward Pludgett with hearts full of deception.

“Now,” said Colonel Joe, coming to stand behind John, “there's not a moment to waste. Parade starts at noon, and we need to move that beast into place.” He handed John a box of matches. “Get that steam engine fired up, and quit your moping.”

Alligator Dan paused on his way toward the caboose. As an act of respect, John had chosen him to be the brakeman. “Try not to worry. We'll know b-b-b-by eleven or so if they've made it out.”

This was supposed to be a comforting thought, but for John it was sheer torture. As he took his place beside Gentle Giant Georgie in the engine compartment, he found himself counting seconds, then milliseconds, growing more and more nervous as he watched the coal burn. The closer the Autopsy got to the city, the more apprehensive he became. What if Boz was recognized?

“Georgie.”

“Yep?”

“Take over for a bit.”

While Georgie tended to the furnace, John inched his way through the cabin and into the head of his dragon. Flanked by Tiger Lil and Maria, Colonel Joe stood in command of the steering wheel. Acting as his lookouts, Porcine Pierre and Mister Missus Hank had taken positions in the right eye, Mabel and Minny in the left. Even Frank and Priscilla had found a place underfoot.

John squeezed beside Mabel and surveyed the territory. Minny cocked her head at him. “If this is a public holiday, I'd hate to see the funerals,” she joked.

Minny was right. As John had anticipated, Pludgett was making a very poor show of celebrations. A few scraggly flags, edges torn and tips stained, lay draped from the windows. Decaying flowers were twined around the lampposts. A moldy bandstand had sprouted in the park.

Yet these were miracles of beauty compared to the floats. John had witnessed some depressing Pludgett Day parade spectacles in his time, but this was embarrassing. The city's asthmatic buildings, her putrid flora, her grumpy gulls—each float's theme was more pathetic than the last. A model of the clock tower was present, complete with the precarious lean. Six overweight men representing the original founders accompanied it.

So it was not surprising that a wave of excitement rippled through the organizers as John's dragon trundled into place.

“Gwwahh, look at that!”

“It's better than a picture!”

“They must have a team of eight horses under that thing!”

Safe inside the head, John found himself chuckling. Pludgett truly had no idea what he was capable of.

Phrrrumpp.

As Alligator Dan applied the brakes, the Autopsy came to a graceful halt behind the seagull float. From his perch in the dragon's eye, John could see a small section of the street in front of him. Page was not on it.

“What time is it?” he asked Colonel Joe.

Colonel Joe consulted his pocket watch. “Half past eleven.”

“Mabel, can you check if Miss Doyle has arrived yet?”

Mabel saluted and ducked under the dragon's wing. She was back in a jiffy. “I asked around. Not a sign of her or her dog.”

John worst fears flamed into life.

“It's your decision, Dung Boy,” Colonel Joe said brusquely. “Give the order and I'll sound the charge.”

“But what if Page is still in the workshop? What if she gets hurt?”

“We may have no choice.”

This was a risk John was not yet ready to contemplate. He held up his hand. “Nobody goes without my say-so. Maria, make sure everybody stays here.” John was out of the Autopsy before any of the Wayfarers could protest.

Rumors of the dragon had reached the crowds. To get a good view, people had already begun to line up along the sidewalks, waiting for noon to strike. Only then would the floats make their procession down Main Street and past the workshops that fronted the sea.

A steady, relentless drizzle began to fall as John pushed his way toward the pier where the family business stood. He felt as if he were hurtling down a waterfall, with no ability to stop himself from plummeting over the edge and smack into Great-Aunt Beauregard.

But he did stop. At the burial ground, he pulled himself up short and ducked to the side. Scrambling on top of a tomb, he peered over the misty heads of the spectators.

His shoulders fell. The workshop was unchanged. The windows were shuttered, the front door was chained. A poster for BYOP, half ripped, festooned the wall. From his vantage point, John could also see the hands of the city clock creeping toward midday.

After ten minutes of watching, he gave up. Miss Doyle and Boz had been captured, he knew it. Not only was Page still in danger, but now two of his best friends were caught in Great-Aunt Beauregard's clutches. He would
have to tell Colonel Joe to hold off on the attack. They couldn't risk an assault, not with Page trapped inside.

Over the graves John leaped, and out through the back of the burial ground. He was panting so hard from the force of his run that he hardly heard the footsteps behind him.

“John Coggin, I have little hope for your future if you can't trust a woman of uncommon talents.”

“I
F YOU'D CARE
to shut that gawp of yours, you'll notice that I've brought someone with me,” Miss Doyle said, giving her dog a friendly pat on the head.

Stiff and slow, the shaggy dog trotted to John's side. Stiff and slow, the dog stood beside him. Stiff and slow, it shed its wooly overcoat.

“Page!” John said, and threw himself into Page's arms. “Are you okay? Did she hurt you?” he asked his sister.

Page shook her head no.

“And Boz?” asked John.

Miss Doyle shrugged. “I let him loose as soon as we got into the workshop. Your great-aunt was pleased to see the back of him—he kept trying to lick her armpits. She was frisking everybody who came in, but she didn't think to search a dog. I've ordered him a brand-new
casket in curly cherry, by the by.”

John turned to his sister, who had been listening intently to all that had been said. “Page, do you know what happened to Boz? Where did he go?”

Page looked like she was about to cry. “He broke into the storeroom and told me to pretend to be the weird old lady's pet. He said he was going to follow me as soon as he was sure I was out of the workshop alive. But he hasn't come!”

“Okay, okay,” John said, giving her a hug. “I'm sure he's going to escape. Don't worry.”

As if to mock him, the sky began to thicken into a black-and-blue stew. Heavy Gloomy Gus clouds were drifting over the city, coating the rooftops. The clock began to toll twelve.

Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bon—

“
JOHN PEREGRINE COGGIN!”

John jumped.

“John Peregrine Coggin, if you are within range of this confounded bullhorn, hear this! You may have your sister, but I have your Boz. Do you hear me? I have Boz locked up tight as a ten-gallon drum. And I'm never going to let him out, do you hear me? I'm never, EVER, going to let him out. So stick that in your craw and chew on it!”

“Oh, nuts,” said Miss Doyle, squinting in the direction of the sound. “We may need Colonel Joe after all.”

So this was it, thought John. The time had come, once and for all, to show his Great-Aunt Beauregard what a Coggin boy could do.

“Page!” Maria's voice rang out. She was sprinting down the road, her skirts gathered up high around her knees. She screeched to a stop in front of Page and swept her into a twirling hug. “Page! Oh, Page!”

Page was bawling, tears running in rivulets down the cobblestones.

“We can't wait,” Miss Doyle said hastily. “Boz is in there.”

“I know,” Maria said, setting Page down on her feet. “That's what I came to tell you. Colonel Joe heard the bullhorn. He has the engine running and said it was now or never.”

“Then let's make it now!” John shouted.

Together, the group sprinted back to the Autopsy. Colonel Joe was standing outside the dragon, tapping out a step so fast it would have earned him a job with the Mimsy Twins.

“We're primed to go,” he said to John, pointing to the floats that were creaking and crunching their way past the starting line. “We'll blast that workshop to bits if that's what it takes. Everyone's in position. Alligator Dan has the chicken poo pellets at the ready. Your sister can stay here with Maria.”

Page stomped her foot and pointed to the dragon.

“I'm coming,” she insisted.

“Can't be done.”

“I won't leave her,” warned John.

“You'd do well to listen to them, Colonel,” Miss Doyle instructed. “Page has just as much right to see it through. Unless”—she tilted her chin—“you think we feminine types need looking after.”

Colonel Joe spat in impatience. “Land sakes alive. You try to show a little bit of chivalry in a rough-and-tumble age, and you're hanged, drawn, and quartered for your troubles. Course the Sprout can come, but . . .” He pointed at John. “She's in your charge.”

“I want to come too,” Maria said. “I'm not letting these two out of my sight.”

“Fine. But let's move!” Colonel Joe roared.

And move they did. By the time the seagull float had inched itself out of the starting blocks, the entire crew was on board and the Autopsy's engine was humming like a train.

“Release the chicken poo pellets!” John called to Alligator Dan.

As Dan obeyed instructions, John caught the faint
plunk plunk
of his super fuel sliding down the chute into the furnace. He pictured the pellets lying on top of the red-hot coals, paralyzed by confusion. He imagined their internal temperature climbing higher and higher, their skin stretching tighter and tighter, their
guts growing hotter and hotter until—

Phhhwweeesshh!
A screeching jet of steam shot straight through the bony spine of the dragon. Stunned by the noise, horses and floats scattered to the sides of the street in confusion.

“Forward!” John cried.

Bump, thump, VROOM!!

The Autopsy took off like it had been shot from a cannon. Down the center of Main Street it rumbled, snowballing in speed as it went. Rain had begun to fall steadily, but the dragon flew on, flipping its tail in glee.

The inhabitants of Pludgett, used to the dingy spectacles of yesteryear, could not believe their eyes. They sent up a deafening cheer as John's creation barreled along the parade route. Men and women and children rose to their feet and applauded.

“It's working, John, it's working!” Tiger Lil shouted.

It
was
working! John hardly trusted the evidence of his own senses. All the muddles and mistakes and catastrophes of the previous year no longer mattered. He had done it. He had accomplished the impossible.

“To your stations!” he yelled to the Mimsy Twins.

Mabel and Minny hurtled themselves toward opposite sides of the dragon's head. Mabel grabbed one small flywheel and Minny another.

“Unleash the secret weapon!”

Heaving with effort, Mabel and Minny turned the
wheels. An inch of daylight appeared in the space between the fangs of the dragon. Then a foot. Then a yard. The massive jaws creaked backward, collapsing in on themselves like the folds of an accordion.

“Wooohoooo!” Porcine Pierre yodeled, grabbing hold of Tiger Lil to stop himself from tumbling off the front of the platform. “Do you see that? I helped build that!”

With the mouth of the dragon now wide open, John had a superb view of the workshop's front door. It was approaching the tip of Betsy's forked red tongue at a frightening rate.

“Fire in the hole!” Alligator Dan bellowed from the caboose. “Chicken poo pellets away!”

“We got her now!” Colonel Joe cried. “A skeeter couldn't squeeze out of this jam jar!” He spat a gob of beeswax over his left shoulder and into Mister Missus Hank's beard. “Ten seconds to impact! Brace positions!”

The Wayfarers scampered to the relative safety of the cabin. In the shuddering, shivering light of the dragon's heart, John looked at his sister. She was gripping his right hand so tightly the blood had drained from her fingers.

“It's okay.” He squeezed. “This is the moment when everything comes right.”

BOOOMMMM!

Betsy smashed into the front door with the full force of a meteor. There was a tremendous crack as the center beam split down the middle. Feet and hands and heads inside the dragon went flying.

“Everyone alive?” Colonel Joe demanded.

John stumbled to his feet and picked up his sister. She was smiling.

“Are we through?” he asked as the Wayfarers crowded out onto the platform.

“Almost!” Miss Doyle said. Her hooded eyes were dancing with impatience. “One more push should do it!”

“Back her up!” John shouted to Georgie. The dragon trundled tail first away from the door.

“Pour on the poo, Dan. We've got a mighty short run!” instructed Colonel Joe.

BANG!
went the heavy metal shutters as Great-Aunt Beauregard appeared in the workshop's third-story window. The once-proud face of granite now resembled rancid cottage cheese.

“Afternoon, Beauregard!” Colonel Joe patted the left side of the cannon. “Remember me?”

Great-Aunt Beauregard could hardly speak for anger, but she managed. “What have you done with my niece?” she brayed.

“Same thing we've done with your nephew. Let 'em have their way,” Colonel Joe replied.

“JOHN PEREGRINE COGGIN!” hollered Great-
Aunt Beauregard. “Get off that silly contraption and return to the family business immediately!”

John stepped to the right side of Betsy.

“No!”

“So that's the thanks I get for my care?” Great-Aunt Beauregard leaned out a little farther. “Well, let me tell you something, John Peregrine Coggin. If you leave me, you'll never amount to anything. Just like your father. You and your sister were born slack-jawed dreamers and you'll die slack-jawed dreamers, and I for one will not shed a tear!”

“Why, that uppity peppercorn!” John heard Miss Doyle sputter behind him. “Let her have it!”

“Wait.” John tugged on Colonel Joe's jacket. “See if she's willing to let Boz go in return for the workshop.”

Colonel Joe nodded. “Beauregard!” He cupped his hands to ensure his words were heard loud and clear. “This is your last chance. You open the door and hand us the ginger imp, and we'll spare your precious business. Otherwise we're coming through!”

Great-Aunt Beauregard guffawed.

“You've gone off your rocker! What are you going to knock me down with, hot air? A rickety contraption that looks like it's about to break into pieces? Next you'll be talking about rainbows and butterflies. The only way Boz is coming out is feetfirst in a Number Three Special!”

And with that, she slammed shut the shutters.

“That's the last straw!” Colonel Joe bellowed. “It's time that woman learned to respect the law of Betsy!”

John couldn't agree more. Every miserable moment of his life in Pludgett, every hour of soul-crushing work, every insult and cuff and sneer, seemed to run through the grain of that impassable front door. He was going to blow it to kingdom come.

“CHARGE!” roared John.

BOOOOOOOMMMMM!

The Autopsy broke through the remaining beams like the coming of doom. A tumult of dust and debris rose from the wreckage, cloaking the interior from view. Whooping wildly, John and the Wayfarers jumped off the platform and stormed toward the workshop.

And stopped on a dime.

The door was gone, yes.

But the portcullis was not. A brand-new gate of crisscrossed steel barred the way.

Great-Aunt Beauregard reappeared at the window. “Didn't expect that, did you?” she crowed. Her face was flushed with triumph. “Didn't expect your stuck-in-the-mud great-aunt to be smart enough to hide a security gate behind the front door? You think you're so imaginative? Let's see you deal with two tons of industrial steel!”

John was crushed. How could they get through a portcullis?

“Is that all you've got, Colonel? Is that all your army of freaks has to show for itself?” By now, his great-aunt Beauregard was laughing maniacally. “Serves you right for putting your trust in one of my great-nephew's inventions!” She looked down from distorted nostrils at her relative.

“You should have listened to me, John Peregrine Coggin. When will you ever learn? Wherever you go and whatever you do, YOU WILL ALWAYS BELONG TO THE FAMILY—”

KABOOOM!

Great-Aunt Beauregard never finished her sentence. The entire top floor of the workshop ripped wide open, sending a torrent of color into the air.

John stepped back to admire his birthday show. Skyrockets, Roman candles and Catherine wheels were bursting across the sky, staining the clouds with gold and red and purple sparks. Horsetails and waterfalls spiked and shimmered, falling in glittering cataracts over the sides of the workshop. Every flower that John could think of—from chrysanthemums to peonies to dahlias—seemed to bloom simultaneously.

But wait!

There was one single dud amid the glory—a thick brown rectangle that rose in a magnificent arch, belting through the colors like a humongous piece of chicken poo.

“What
is
that?” John shouted, pointing to the speeding object.

“It's a turd!” Colonel Joe said.

“It's a crane!” Miss Doyle countered.

“It's Great-Aunt Beauregard!” shrieked Page.

Great-Aunt Beauregard it was, sitting bolt upright in a coffin and advancing with considerable speed toward the clouds.

“Is she going to come down?” asked Page.

“Look!” Alligator Dan shouted. “There she g-g-goes!”

And there she went.

Having reached the apex of its climb, the coffin now began its descent, plummeting ever faster down the curve of its arc. Great-Aunt Beauregard appeared to be completely unaffected. Straight and grim she sat, moving not a muscle as the coffin bridged the buildings along the waterfront and disappeared into the harbor.