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Tuxall planted a big rock under the barn, fixed it up appropriately with torch and chisel and sent for the Farleys, who are expert firework and balloon people, to counterfeit a meteor." "Amazing!" cried the clergyman. "Such a meteor, furthermore, as had never been dreamed of before.
You ran across the fields to the Tuxall place and went around let me see; the wind had shifted to the northeast yes; to the northeast of the barn and quite a distance away. There you saw a man at work in his shirt." "Well-I'll-be-jiggered!" said the boy in measured tones. "Where were you hiding, Mr. Jones?" "Not behind the tree there, anyway," returned the Ad-Visor with a chuckle.
Do you begin to see the meaning of the big print now?" "I've heard nothing about big prints," said the puzzled clergyman. "Pardon me, you've heard but you haven't understood. However, to go on, Tuxall and our friends here fixed up a plan on the prospects of a rich harvest from public curiosity and credulity.
The box on the ground was a battery. The wire from the battery was connected with a firework bomb, which, when Tuxall pressed the switch, exploded, releasing a flaming 'dropper. About the time the 'dropper' reached the earth Tuxall lighted up his well-oiled barn.
But, within a minute, a lurid radiance rose and spread in the night. The aerial bolt had gone crashing through an old barn on the Tuxall place, setting it afire. Bailey Prentice was among the very few who did not go to the fire. Taken in connection with the fact that he was fourteen years old and very thoroughly a boy, this, in itself, was phenomenal.
So they worked at top speed, and left the final performance to Tuxall. In their excitement they forgot to find out from their accomplice who Bailey was. Consequently, they found themselves presently driving across country with an unknown and undesired white elephant of a boy on their hands.
"Finally, then, how could you know that Bailey was injured and unconscious?" "If he hadn't been unconscious then and for long after, he'd have revealed his identity to his captors, wouldn't he?" explained the Ad-Visor. There was a long pause. Then the woman said timidly: "Well, and now what?" "Nothing," answered Average Jones. "Tuxall has got away. Mr. Prentice has recovered his son.
"Then it is conceivable that your son's clothes might have been tossed from a passing vehicle, to the spot where they were discovered." "Conceivable, certainly. But I can see no grounds for such a conjecture." "How far down the road, in this direction, did tracks run?" "Not beyond the fence-bar opening from the Tuxall field, if that is what you mean." "It is, exactly. Do you know this Tuxall?"
Presently he asked: "Did you go to the spot where your son's clothes were found?" "Yes. Some time after." "Where was it?" "On the seashore, some half a mile to the east of the Tuxall place, and a little beyond." "Is there a roadway from the Tuxall place to the spot?" "No; I believe not. But one could go across the fields and through the barn to the old deserted roadway." "Ah.
"In just half an hour," replied the visitor, holding his finger on the time-table. "But," cried Mr. Prentice, "that is the train back to New York." "Exactly." "And you're not going to see Tuxall?" "No." "Nor to examine the place where the clothes were found?" "Haven't time." "Mr. Jones, are you giving up the attempt to discover what became of my boy?" "I know what became of him."
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