REBECCA’S TRUMP CARD

When Rebecca set out for the Panchronicon from London Bridge, she knew that she had a long walk in prospect, and settled down to the work with dogged resolution. Her trip was quite uneventful until she neared the village of Newington, and then she realized for the first time that she did not know exactly where to find the deserted grove. One grove looked much like another, and how was she to choose between garden walls “as like as two peas,” as she expressed it?

“Look here, Rebecca Wise,” she said, aloud, as she paused in the middle of the road, “you’ll be lost next you know!”

She looked about dubiously and shook her head.

“The thing fer you to do is to set right down an’ wait fer that pesky good-fer-nothin’ Copernicus Droop!” she remarked, and suiting action to speech she picked her way to a convenient mile-stone and seated herself.

Having nothing better to do, she began to review mentally the events of the last two days, and as she recalled one after the other the unprecedented adventures which had overtaken her, she wondered in a dreamy way what would next befall. She built hazy hypotheses, sitting there alone in the moonlight, nodding contentedly. Suddenly she straightened up, realizing that she had been aroused from a doze by a cry near at hand.

Turning toward London, she saw a wriggling mass about fifty feet away which, by a process of slow disentanglement, gradually developed into a man’s form rising from the ground and raising a fallen bicycle.

“Darn the luck!” said this dark figure. “Busted my tire, sure as shootin’!”

“Copernicus Droop!” cried Rebecca, in a loud voice.

Droop jumped high in the air, so great was his nervousness. Then, realizing that it was Rebecca who had addressed him, he limped toward her, rolling his bicycle beside him.

“How in creation did you get here?” he asked. “Ain’t any steam-cars ’round here, is there?”

“Guess not!” Rebecca replied. “I come by short cut up river. I guessed you’d make fer the Panchronicle, and I jest made up my mind to come, too. Thinks I, ’that Copernicus Droop ud be jest mean enough to fly away all by himself an’ leave me an’ Phoebe to shift fer ourselves.’ So I’m here to go, too an’ what’s more, we’ve got to take Phoebe!”

“How’ll ye find yer sister, Cousin Rebecca?” said Droop. “We must git out to-night. When the Queen gets on her ear like that, it’s now or never. Can you find Cousin Phoebe to-night?”

“Where is the old machine, anyhow?” Rebecca asked, not heeding Droop’s question.

“Right over yonder,” said he, pointing to a dark group of trees a few rods distant.

“Well, come on, then. Let’s go to it right away,” said Rebecca. “I’d like to rest a bit. I’m tired!”

“Tired!” Droop exclaimed. “What about me, then?”

Without further parley, the two set off toward the grove which Droop had indicated. Having dwelt here for several weeks, he knew his bearings well, but it was not until they came much nearer to the deserted mansion that Rebecca recognized several landmarks which convinced her that he had made no mistake.

Under the trees, the shadows were so black that they were unable to find the breach in the wall.

“Got any matches, Cousin Rebecca?” Droop asked.

“Yes. Wait a minute an’ I’ll strike a light. I know that blessed hole is somewhere right near here.”

She found again her card of matches, and breaking off one of them, soon had a tiny taper which lit up their surroundings wonderfully.

“There ’tis! I’ve found it,” cried Droop, and, taking Rebecca by the arm, he led her toward the broken place in the wall. The match went out just as they reached it.

Droop was about to suggest that he go in first to see if all was well, when he was startled by Rebecca’s hand on his arm.

“Hark!” she cried.

He listened and distant cries coming nearer through the night were borne to his ears.

“What’s that?” Rebecca exclaimed again.

Rigid with excitement and dread, they stood there listening. At length Droop pulled himself free of Rebecca’s hold.

“That’s some o’ them palace folks chasin’ after me!” he cried, in a panic.

“Fiddle-dee-dee!” Rebecca exclaimed, with energy. “How should they know where you are?”

By this time the sounds were more distinct, and they could easily make out cries of: “Traitor! Stop him! For the Queen! Stop him!”

The two listeners had just mentally concluded that this alarm did not in any wise concern them when Rebecca was startled beyond measure to hear her sister Phoebe’s voice, loud above all other sounds.

“Nay nay, Guy!” she was screaming. “Stop not to fight! Fly follow! Shelter is here at hand!”

Forgetting everything but possible danger for Phoebe, Rebecca dashed out from under the trees.

There in the moonlight she saw Phoebe on horseback, her head uncovered, her hair floating free and her clothing in tatters. A few paces behind her was Sir Guy, also mounted, fiercely attacking two pursuing horsemen with his sword. Farther back, rendered indistinct by distance, was a larger group of mingled horse and foot travellers. There was a lantern among them, and Rebecca inferred that the watch was with them.

A moment later, one of the two men engaged with Sir Guy fell from his horse. Instantly the young knight turned upon the second pursuer, who fled at once toward the larger group now rapidly approaching.

Rebecca ran forward and waved her card of matches frantically, apparently thinking in her excitement that she held a flag.

“Here, Phoebe here, child!” she screamed. “This way, quick! Here we are awaitin’ fer ye. Come, quick quick!”

With a loud cry of joy, Phoebe slipped from her horse and ran toward her sister.

“Oh, Rebecca, Rebecca!” she cried, throwing herself into her sister’s arms. “Oh, you dear, lovely, sweet old darling!”

Rebecca kissed her younger sister with tears in her eyes, almost as affected as the girl herself, who was now laughing and crying hysterically on her breast.

While they stood thus tightly locked in each other’s arms, Guy came to their side with sword in hand.

“Quick!” he said, sharply. “You must away to shelter. Here comes the watch apace. I will protect the rear.”

The two women started apart and Phoebe set forward obediently, but Rebecca only gave the fast-approaching crowd a look of proud contempt.

“Fiddle-ends!” she exclaimed. “You go on ahead, Guy. I’ll fix them queer folks!”

Whether Rebecca’s voice convinced him of her power to make good her words or that he felt his first duty was at Phoebe’s side, the fact is that the young knight strode forward with his sweetheart toward the breach in the wall, leaving Rebecca behind to bear the first attack.

Droop had already passed within the enclosure and was groping his way toward the black mass of the Panchronicon.

Phoebe, led by an accurate memory of her surroundings, had but little difficulty in finding the opening, and, by her voice, Sir Guy and Rebecca were guided to it.

Phoebe passed through first and Sir Guy followed just as the advance guard of the pursuing mob rushed under the trees, swinging their two lanterns and shouting aloud:

“Here this way! We have ’em fast!”

Rebecca coolly stooped and drew the edge of her entire card of matches across a stone at her feet. Then, standing erect, she thrust the sulphurous blue blaze into the faces of two rough-looking fellows just advancing to seize her.

Sir Guy, who stood within the wall, found cause for deep amazement in the yell of startled fear with which Rebecca’s act was met; and deeper yet grew his astonishment when that cry was re-echoed by the whole terror-stricken mob, who turned as one man to flee from this flaming, sulphurous sorceress.

Rebecca quietly waited until the sulphur had burned off and the wood blazed bright and clear. Then she pushed through the broken wall and showed the way to their destination by the light of the small torch.

Sir Guy’s feelings may be imagined when he suddenly found that they were all four standing before a strangely formed structure in the side of which Copernicus had just opened a door.

“Why, Mary!” he exclaimed, pausing in his walk. “What have we here?”

She took his hand with a smile and drew him gently forward.

“Trust thy Mary yet further, Guy,” she said. “Thy watchword must be, ‘Trust and question not.’”

He smiled in reply and, sheathing his sword, stepped boldly forward into the interior of the Panchronicon. Phoebe knew the power of superstition in that age, and she glowed with pride and tenderness, conscious that in this act of faith in her the knight evinced more courage than ever he might need to bear him well in battle.

When the electric lights shed a sudden bright glare down the spiral staircase, Sir Guy cowered and stopped short again, turning pale with a fear irrepressible. But Phoebe put one arm about his neck and drew his head down to hers, whispering in his ear. What she said none heard save him, but the spell of her words was potent, for the young knight stood erect once more and firmly ascended to the room above.

Droop stood nervously waiting at the engine-room door.

“Are ye all in?” he said, sharply. “Where’s Cousin Rebecca?”

“Here I be!” came a voice from below. “I’m jest lockin’ the door tight.”

“Well, hurry up hurry! Come up here an’ lay down. I’m goin’ to start.”

In a few moments all was in readiness. Droop pulled the lever, and with a roar and a mighty bound the Panchronicon, revived by its long period of waiting, sped upward into the night.

As the four fugitives sat upright again, and Droop, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, was about to speak, the door of one of the bedchambers was opened, and a stranger dressed in nineteenth-century attire stepped forward, shading his blinking eyes with his hand.

The two women screamed, but Droop only dropped amazed into a chair.

“Francis Bacon!” he exclaimed.

Then, leaping forward eagerly, he cried aloud:

“Gimme them clothes!”

Of the return trip of the five, little need be said save to record one untoward incident which has been the occasion of a most unfortunate historic controversy.

The date-recording instrument must have been deranged in some way, for when, after a great number of eastward turns around the pole, it marked the year 1898, they had really only reached 1857. Supposing themselves to have actually reached the year erroneously indicated by the recorder, they set off southward and made a first landing in Hartford, Connecticut.

Here they discovered their mistake, and returned to the pole to complete their journey in time. All but Francis Bacon. He declared that so much whirling made him giddy, and remained in Connecticut. Alas! Had Phoebe known the result of this desertion, she would never have consented to it.

Bacon, who had read much of Shakespeare while in the Panchronicon, found on returning thus accidentally to modern America, that this playwright was esteemed the first and greatest of poets and dramatists by the modern world. Then and there he planned a conspiracy to rob the greatest character in literary history of his just fame; and, under the pseudonym of “Delia Bacon,” advanced those theories of his own concealed authorship which have ever since deluded the uncritical and disgusted all lovers of common-sense and of justice.

Copernicus Droop, on returning his three remaining passengers to their proper dates and addresses, discovered that his sole remaining phonograph, with certain valuable records of Elizabethan origin, had disappeared. As he owed a grudge to Francis Bacon, that worthy fell at once under suspicion, and accordingly Droop promptly returned to 1857, sought out the deserter, and charged him with having stolen these instruments.

It was not until the accused man had indignantly denied all knowledge of Droop’s property that the crestfallen Yankee recollected that he had left the apparatus in question in the deserted mansion of Newington, where he had stored it for greater safety after Bacon’s first unexpected visit.

Without hesitation, he determined to return to 1598 and reclaim his own. Bacon, who had learned from modern historical works of the brilliant future in store for himself in England, begged Droop to take him back; and as an atonement for his unjust accusation, Droop consented.

It is not generally known that, contrary to common report, Francis Bacon was not arrested for debt in 1598; but that, during the time he was supposed to have been in prison, he was actually engaged in building up in his own behalf the greatest hoax in history.

Let those who may be inclined to discredit this scrupulously authentic chronicle proceed forthwith to Peltonville, New Hampshire, and there ask for Mr. and Mrs. Guy Fenton. From them will be gained complete corroboration of this history, not only in the account which they will give of their own past adventures, but in the unmistakable Elizabethan flavor distinguishable to this day in their speech and manner. Indeed, the single fact that both ale and beer are to be found behind their wood-pile should be convincing evidence on this point.

As for Rebecca, fully convinced at last of the marvellous qualities of the Panchronicon, she never tires of taking her little nephew, Isaac Burton Wise Fenton, on her knee and telling him of her amazing adventures in the palace of “Miss Tudor.”