Baron Trump's Marvellous Underground Journey
at the inhospitable dwellers in these chambers of white marble, he
growled and laid bare his teeth to show his contempt for them.
Now the great marble cask began to revolve the other way and in a moment
it was back in place again.
I heard several sharp clicks as if a number of huge spring latches had
snapped into place, and then all was silent as the tomb, and I had
almost said as dark too; but no, I could not say that, for I looked out
into a low tunnel which ran past the niche in which Bulger and I were
standing, and to my more than wonder it was dimly lighted.
I stepped out into it; it was as round as a cannon bore and just high
enough for me to stand erect; and now I discovered whence the light
proceeded. In the cracks and crevices of its walls grew vast masses of
those delicate light-giving fungous rootlets, the glow of which was so
strong that I had no difficulty in reading the writing on my tablets; in
fact, I stood there for several minutes making entries by the light of
these bunches of glowing rootlets.
Then the thought dashed through my mind,—
“Which way shall I turn, to the right or to the left?”
Bulger comprehended the cause of my vacillation and made haste to come
to my rescue. After sniffing the air, first in one direction and then in
the other, he chose the right hand, and I followed without a thought of
questioning his wisdom. Strange to say, he had not advanced more than a
few hundred rods before I noticed that there was a strong current of air
blowing through the tunnel in the direction Bulger had taken.
Every moment it increased in violence, fairly lifting us from our feet
and bearing us along through this narrow bore made by nature’s own hands
and lighted too by lamps of her own fashioning. The motion of the air
through this vast pipe caused bursts of mighty tones as if peeled forth
by some gigantic organ played by giant hands. It was strange, but yet I
felt no terror as I listened to this unearthly music, although its depth
of tone jarred painfully upon my ear-drums.
By the dim light of the luminous rootlets, I could see Bulger just ahead
of me, and I was content. No shiver of fear ran down my back, or robbed
my limbs of their full power to resist the ever-increasing pressure of
the air. But as it grew stronger and stronger, half of my own accord and
half because Bulger set the example, I broke into a run. Our pace once
quickened it was impossible for me to slow up again. On, on, in a mad
race, my feet scarcely touching the bottom of the tunnel, I sped along,
while the great pipe through which I was borne on the very wings of the
gale sent forth its deep and majestic peal.
There was something strangely and mysteriously exciting in this race,
and all that kept me from enjoying it to my full bent was the thought
that a sudden increase in the violence of the blast might toss me
violently on my face and possibly break an arm for me or injure me in
some serious way.
All at once the deep pealing forth of the organ-like tone ceased, and in
its stead came the awful sound of rushing water. Before I had time to
think, it was upon me, striking me like a terrific blow from some
gigantic fist wearing a boxing-glove. The next instant I was caught up
like a cork on a mountain torrent, swayed from side to side, twisted,
turned, sucked down and cast up again, whirled over and over, tossed and
tumbled, rolled along like a wheel, my arms and legs the spokes!
Wonderful to relate, I did not lose consciousness as this terrible
current shot me like a stick of timber through a flume, whither I knew
not, only that the speed and volume went ever on increasing until at
last the tumultuous torrent filled the tunnel, and robbed me of light,
of breath, of life, of everything, including my faithful and loving
Bulger!
How long it lasted—this fearful ride in the arms of these mad waters,
rushing as if for life or death through this narrow bore—I know not; I
only know that my ears were suddenly assailed with a mighty whizz and
rush of water as through the nozzle of some gigantic hose, and that I
was shot out into the glorious sunshine, out into the grand, free, open
air of the upper world, and sent flying up toward the dear, blue sky
with its flecks of fleecy cloudlets, and Bulger some twenty feet ahead
of me, and that then, with a gracefully curved flight through the soft
and balmy air of harvest time, we both were gently dropped into a quiet
little lake nestled at the foot of a hillside yellow with ripened corn.
In a moment or so we had swum ashore. Bulger wanted to halt and shake
the water from his thick coat, but I couldn’t wait for that. Wet as he
was, I clasped him to my heart while he showered caresses on me. But not
a word was said, not a sound was uttered. We were both of us too happy
to speak, and if you have ever been in that state, dear friends, you
know how it feels.
I can’t describe it to you.
At this moment some men and boys clad in the garb of the Russian peasant
came racing across the fields to see what I was about, no doubt, for I
had stripped off my heavy outside clothing, and was spreading it out in
the sun to dry.
Upon sight of these red-cheeked children of the upper world I was so
overcome with joy that for a minute or so I couldn’t get a syllable
across my lips, but making a great effort I cried out,—
“Fathers! Brothers! Where am I? Speak! dear souls!”
“In north-eastern Siberia, little soul,” replied the eldest of the
party, “not far from the banks of the Obi; but whence comest thou? By
Saint Nicholas, I believe thou wast spit out of the spouting well! What
art thou doing here alone?”
I paid no attention to the question. I was thinking of something else of
more importance to me, to wit: my splendid achievement, the marvellous
underground journey I had just completed, fully five hundred miles in
length, passing completely under the Ural Mountains! After a short stay
at the nearest village, I engaged the best guide that was to be had, and
crossing the Urals by the pass in the most direct line, re-entered
Russia and made haste to join the first government train on its way to
St. Petersburg.
Having despatched an _avant courier_ with letters to my beloved parents,
informing them of my good health and whereabouts, I passed several weeks
very pleasantly in the Russian capital, and then by easy stages set out
for home.
The elder baron came as far as Riga to meet me, and brought me the best
of news from Castle Trump, that my dear mother was in perfect health,
and that she and every man, woman, and child in and about the castle
were anxiously waiting to give me a real German welcome back home again.
And here, dear friends, _mit herzlichen Grüsse_, Bulger and I take our
leave of you.
By INGERSOLL LOCKWOOD
THE TRAVELS AND ADVENTURES OF LITTLE BARON TRUMP AND HIS WONDERFUL
DOG BULGER
Illustrated by GEORGE WHARTON EDWARDS Cloth $2.00
THE WONDERFUL DEEDS AND DOINGS OF LITTLE GIANT BOAB AND HIS TALKING
RAVEN TABIB
Illustrated by CLIFTON JOHNSON Cloth $2.00
EXTRAORDINARY EXPERIENCES OF LITTLE CAPTAIN DOPPELKOP ON THE SHORES
OF BUBBLELAND
Illustrated by CLIFTON JOHNSON Cloth $2.00
BARON TRUMP’S MARVELLOUS UNDERGROUND JOURNEY
Illustrated by CHARLES HOWARD JOHNSON Price $2.00
Little Baron Trump and His Wonderful Dog Bulger
PRESS NOTICES
=BOSTON TIMES.= “Mr. Ingersoll Lockwood is nothing if not
original—and he _is_ original. The most partial critic would not
dare to deny him that desirable gift after a glance at his ‘Little
Baron Trump.’ Like the great Munchausen, the little Baron has a
passion for travel, a lust of adventure, a fever of imagination.
He sees, says, and does queer things; accidents never heard of
outside the lunatic asylums and Mr. Lockwood’s pages test his
resources at every hand; to ‘grapple with an emergency’ is beneath
him—he simply walks over it. We owe Mr. Lockwood thanks, too, for
that he has neglected to wrap a moral around his tales, and has
given us simply a delightful example of the art of sustained
fooling.”
=UTICA HERALD.= “A book which might easily be rated one of the
posthumous chapters of the ‘Arabian Nights,’ so far as its style
goes, and possessing, as the little Baron observes, ‘an almost
Oriental exuberance of fancy.’ The pictures by Mr. Edwards are
very comical, and as ingenious as they are quaint. But they are
hardly as wonderful as the doings of the young Baron and his more
wonderful confidant, Bulger. Surely never was such another dog as
he.”
=NATIONAL TRIBUNE.= “The travels and adventures of Baron Trump and
the bulldog are indeed extraordinary, even more so than those of
‘Sinbad the Sailor.’ The book is full of quaint humor,
side-splitting at times. The Baron is an extremely precocious
youngster, and Bulger, though he cannot talk, is gifted with the
worldly wisdom and acuteness of a Prime Minister.”
=WOMAN’S CYCLE.= “Poor Munchausen won his reputation in the nick of
time. A few generations later and he would have had no chance at
all. His inventive genius would have fallen below that of a
reporter for a ‘great’ daily. Imagination is accustomed nowadays
to astounding flights. It performs a series of them in this book,
which is also illustrated so comically as to make the small boy
sit on the floor and wriggle with delight, while his elders guffaw
boisterously. It is, in fact, a ‘funny’ book.”
=NEW YORK SUN.= “A very whimsical and ingenious tale is that
entitled ‘Little Baron Trump and His Wonderful Dog Bulger.’ Young
or old readers will appreciate the humor of the author. The
illustrations by George Wharton Edwards admirably supplement the
text.”
=ALTA CALIFORNIAN.= “Heathen mythology, ‘The Arabian Nights,’ and
the modern fairy tale are brought to mind by the wonderful scenes,
but there is no evidence of plagiarism, startling originality
being far more in the author’s line than surreptitious imitation.
Many of the marvels are ingeniously founded on the scientific
theories of recent years, and satires on popular shortcomings or
delusions are conveyed in the guise of some perilous experience.
The author has evidently given full but harmless rein to an
original and prolific imagination.”
=PORTLAND TELEGRAM.= “One of the most interesting stories for young
people ever issued by an American publisher. Its humor is
contagious, its fun rollicking, while the variety and astonishing
nature of the experiences of the pair holds the reader captive
until the end. The illustrations by Wharton Edwards lend an added
charm to the work.”
=N. Y. TRIBUNE.= “Mr. Lockwood’s clever book, though modelled, no
doubt, on Munchausen’s narrative, has a whimsical originality of
invention which the first Baron might have envied. It is a
question whether the very youthful reader will fully appreciate
all the fun which an older reader finds therein; but it is certain
that the book will not be dropped until the last prodigious
adventure is absorbed. As a book of fantastic impossibilities,
gravely set forth, it is the most attractive devised in many a
season.”
=PUBLIC OPINION.= “One of the jolliest and most rollicking stories
of the year. It is an old-time children’s story, full of marvel,
mystery, and adventure. The author, Ingersoll Lockwood, has
succeeded in writing a capital boy’s book that is at once