Doctor Jones' Picnic

Doctor Jones' Picnic

S. E. Chapman

5.0
Comment(s)
22
View
24
Chapters

Doctor Jones' Picnic by S. E. Chapman

Doctor Jones' Picnic Chapter 1 No.1

"Figures Don't Lie."

The North Pole! That spot upon earth so environed with trackless fields of unbroken snow and mountains of ice; with an atmosphere so cold that none but the bravest and hardiest of mankind can breathe it and live. And yet these apparently insuperable obstacles have but stimulated men to do and dare all things, so that they might but reach that ultima thule. In vain have our utilitarians cried, "Qui bono?" God has planted within man the spirit of lordship and domination; and, true to that spirit, he will never rest until Nature shall have yielded up to him her last secret, and his restless foot shall have trodden the wildest and farthest spot of earth. Then, and not till then, will he stand crowned "Lord of Creation."

In this faithful history of the discovery and exact location of the North Pole, it is not necessary to bring before the reader in historical review the many illustrious names and grand heroisms of former explorers of Arctic regions. They did marvelous deeds, beyond the comprehension of those who did not actually participate in them. They sacrificed thousands of noble lives, and undoubtedly did all that could be done with the means at their command. Ah! there we have struck the keynote. The means at their command were inadequate, and nothing but failure and disaster could result from their best laid plans and efforts.

Dr. Jonathan Jones sat in his office in the populous, thriving city of R--, situated in one of our western states. He occupied an easy chair, heels upon a low, flat-topped writing desk, newspaper in hand, reading an account of the failure of Dr. Nansen to reach the North Pole. That renowned and hardy explorer proposed reaching the spot by floating on an ice floe. We are all familiar with the fact that he did actually get to within about three hundred miles of the coveted spot, but was obliged to turn back for want of dogs and sledges.

Dr. Jones laid the paper down with a groan. "Will they never learn?" he apostrophizingly cried to a bust of Hahnemann that rested upon a bracket in a corner of the room. "They can never get there on any such lines. I believe it to be a perfectly feasible scheme, if worked out on simple scientific principles. If I had capital, I would try it."

He sat with the points of his extended fingers touching each its mate of the opposite hand, and mused for several moments. Suddenly he seized a pencil, and rapidly jotted down figures, lines, and characters that meant nothing to any mortal but himself.

"Figures don't lie!" he shouted to aforesaid bust. "That depends, Doctor, on whether they are legitimately used or not. Sometimes they are made to represent the vilest untruth," said a voice behind him. The Doctor wheeled about and encountered the genial countenance of Mr. A.L. Denison.

"Hullo! Denison. Just the man I wanted to see. Sit down."

"What's up now, Doctor? Anyone hurt or seriously sick?" inquired Denison, as he occupied a chair.

For answer the Doctor read aloud the account of Dr. Nansen's failure to reach the North Pole, and then said: "I do not wonder that he failed. No one will succeed upon any such lines or plans."

"Well, Doctor, you don't suppose that anyone will ever get there and back alive, do you?"

"Whether they will or not, I do not know; but that it is a perfectly feasible and rational undertaking, under proper conditions, I as firmly believe as I do that I am alive," and he brought his fist down upon the desk by way of emphasis with a whack that made the various loose articles in the little office rattle. Even the bust upon the bracket moved about uneasily, whether by way of approbation or not, this truthful chronicle ventures no opinion. Denison looked at the flushed face and glittering eyes of the Doctor, moved uneasily in his chair, and said: "What's up, Doctor? I never knew you to drink. Getting off?" tapping his os frontis with his forefinger significantly.

"Denison," replied the Doctor, unheeding the innuendoes of his friend, "I tell you that I have a plan for going to, and returning from, the North Pole with perfect safety, absolute certainty, and a degree of comfort that will reduce the whole expedition to the level of a glorious picnic." Denison indulged in a long, low whistle.

"Draw it a little milder, Doctor. Go to and return from the North Pole with perfect safety, certainty, comfort, and pleasure! What do you mean? I never heard of anything so preposterous in my life!"

"Hitch up to the desk here, and I will soon tell you what I mean," cried the Doctor. Denison complied, and the Doctor, seizing a pencil, drew upon a leaf of the scratch book, with a few vigorous strokes, a sketch of a globe, thus:

"There," said he, as he gave a few finishing touches. "There you have the idea."

"Well, go on."

"This sketch represents a mammoth globe of aluminum, two hundred feet in diameter, as you will notice.

"I see," assented Denison.

"We have, then, a great hollow globe, consisting, as I said before, of aluminum. I have chosen that material for two obvious reasons; lightness and strength. The globe is simply to be floated by heating the atmosphere within it."

"What will you heat it with, and how long do you suppose it will be before your globe returns to the earth?" asked Denison.

"Your questions are quite practical, and I am ready to answer them. There are to be three skins or coverings to our globe, with a foot of space (or air blanket, if you please) between them. This affords us two air chambers that materially prevent the radiation of heat. Once heated, a very little fuel will keep the interior of our great air-ship at the desired temperature. You see, at the inferior or lower part of the ship, a square apartment attached, plentifully supplied with windows. That represents the living and store rooms. The living rooms are to be comfortably furnished, and no reason can be alleged why we should not enjoy in them absolute comfort. In our store-rooms, we will carry one year's supply of food. And in tanks of sufficient size, petroleum (or whatever combustible we conclude to be most suitable) for heating and cooking purposes. See?"

"I see," said Denison.

"You will observe that so conservative of heat is this arrangement that every particle of caloric created in the living rooms, or cabin below, helps by that much to float the great globe. All the warmth from cooking and heating; the heat and smoke from our pipes and cigars; yea, even the animal heat which radiates from our bodies, all subserve the one great purpose and function-keeping up the temperature and buoyant effort of the globe. Do you begin to catch on?" fairly shouted the enthusiastic Doctor.

"Well, it looks very well so far," returned Denison slowly. "But, my dear sir, I foresee one difficulty that in your enthusiasm you seem to have overlooked. You can never guide or steer this immense ship. It must go with the wind, and you are just as likely to go to the South Pole as to the North, and very unlikely to go to either. You must excuse me, but this last is certainly an insuperable obstacle to your making anything practicable of your idea."

"I admit at once that this great body could not be steered, nor in any degree guided by any apparatus that we could devise," assented the Doctor. "But that we should be obliged to float aimlessly, hither and thither, altogether the creatures of chance, I do not for a moment admit. The equator, receiving as it does, the vertical rays of the sun, is by far the hottest portion of the earth. The atmosphere at that quarter, being constantly superheated and correspondingly rarified, ascends into the vault above. This creates a semi-vacuum below, and the cooler atmospheres north and south of the equator rush in and fill the aforesaid vacuum. Pouring in from opposite directions with an impetus that often amounts to hurricanes, they boil up as they meet, miles into the firmament above. They then set off in two strong currents toward either Pole. What is the natural inference? The navigators of our air-ship have the power to raise and lower at pleasure. Obviously, there is but one thing for sensible men to do: Let her rise until we strike a northerly current, if necessary, and remain in it so long as it is favorable; when it changes, rise or lower until another favorable current is found, etc. Do you happen to think of any more 'insuperable' obstacles, my dear sir?"

"Well, I must say that while I am not convinced of the practicability of your scheme, still you meet my objections in a way that is quite surprising, and which shows that you have given the matter much thought; yet I am not sure that you will not run upon difficulties that will make it altogether impossible. For instance, there is the cost of so vast an undertaking. It would cost hundreds of thousands, at the least calculation."

"Now, Denison, you have struck the only real difficulty that I can think of. I really have no idea of who will furnish the money. I had not thought even of asking anyone to do so."

Patients came in at this juncture, and Denison took his departure. A few days later, however, he returned, and when the Doctor was at leisure, opened the conversation by asking if anything had developed with regard to the air-ship building.

"O, ho!" cried Dr. Jones, "you are getting into my way of thinking on that subject, are you?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I have thought of it considerably since I saw you. I would like, at least, to see it tried."

"There is but one way to do: If you get interested sufficiently to wish to take hold, we will see if we cannot stir up our friends and form a stock company. Or, failing in that, we might have a working model built, and I think we could induce the Government to take hold of the matter."

Denison called frequently during the following month, and it was evident that he was fast becoming imbued with the Doctor's ideas and enthusiasm.

* * *

Continue Reading

You'll also like

One Night With The Wrong Brother

One Night With The Wrong Brother

Tangye Wanzi
5.0

I thought I was waking up in the arms of Arthur, the man I loved. But as the morning light hit the Hamptons estate, the man buttoning his cuffs by the window turned around with eyes like chips of ice. It was Augustus Riddle, Arthur’s cruel younger brother, and I had just spent the night whispering confessions of love into the wrong man's ear. The night I thought was a beautiful beginning turned into a devastating nightmare. Instead of comfort, Gus treated me like a stain on his expensive carpet, scribbling a check for "services rendered" before shoving me into a dark service corridor to hide my existence from his brother. "How much does it cost to buy your silence?" He sneered, before leaving me barefoot in a torrential downpour while he drove away in a luxury Cadillac. Four years later, I am a struggling actress in Los Angeles, working double shifts as a barista just to keep the lights on. My life was finally stable until my roommate dragged me to a high-end dinner to meet her new "influential" boyfriend. The man sitting at the table, looking more arrogant and lethal than ever, was Augustus. He spent the entire night humiliating me, calling me a pathetic amateur and a social climber in front of my only friends. When I fled into the rain and collapsed on the sidewalk, skinning my knee until I bled, he watched from his car. He saw me clutching a plastic baggie containing the taped-together pieces of that four-year-old check—the only proof of my shame. He looked at me like roadkill, rolled up his window, and drove off into the dark. I couldn't understand why he was doing this. Why did he hate me enough to crush me, yet remember that I couldn't handle the smell of cigarette smoke? Why did he leave me bleeding in the street, only to send expensive medical supplies and coffee to my door the very next morning? "I'm moving out." I told my roommates, realizing that Gus Riddle didn't just want to destroy me; he wanted to haunt me. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out with eighty dollars to my name, finally ready to disappear into the city before he could burn the rest of my life to the ground.

I Slapped My Fiancé-Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

I Slapped My Fiancé-Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

Jessica C. Dolan
4.9

Being second best is practically in my DNA. My sister got the love, the attention, the spotlight. And now, even her damn fiancé. Technically, Rhys Granger was my fiancé now-billionaire, devastatingly hot, and a walking Wall Street wet dream. My parents shoved me into the engagement after Catherine disappeared, and honestly? I didn't mind. I'd crushed on Rhys for years. This was my chance, right? My turn to be the chosen one? Wrong. One night, he slapped me. Over a mug. A stupid, chipped, ugly mug my sister gave him years ago. That's when it hit me-he didn't love me. He didn't even see me. I was just a warm-bodied placeholder for the woman he actually wanted. And apparently, I wasn't even worth as much as a glorified coffee cup. So I slapped him right back, dumped his ass, and prepared for disaster-my parents losing their minds, Rhys throwing a billionaire tantrum, his terrifying family plotting my untimely demise. Obviously, I needed alcohol. A lot of alcohol. Enter him. Tall, dangerous, unfairly hot. The kind of man who makes you want to sin just by existing. I'd met him only once before, and that night, he just happened to be at the same bar as my drunk, self-pitying self. So I did the only logical thing: I dragged him into a hotel room and ripped off his clothes. It was reckless. It was stupid. It was completely ill-advised. But it was also: Best. Sex. Of. My. Life. And, as it turned out, the best decision I'd ever made. Because my one-night stand isn't just some random guy. He's richer than Rhys, more powerful than my entire family, and definitely more dangerous than I should be playing with. And now, he's not letting me go.

The Placeholder Bride's Secret Billionaire Revenge

The Placeholder Bride's Secret Billionaire Revenge

Luo Ye
5.0

For two years, I was the invisible force behind tech billionaire Kieran Douglas, convinced that our "private" romance was his way of protecting us from the tabloid spotlight. I managed his mergers, warmed his bed, and waited for a future that didn't exist. The illusion shattered at 6:00 AM when a Page Six alert debuted Kieran’s "real" romance with socialite Aspen Schneider. Before I could even process the betrayal, Kieran sent me a cold, professional text: "Order flowers for Aspen. Pink peonies. Her favorite." When I tried to walk away, my own mother called me a disgrace and threatened to lock my inheritance forever unless I married a sixty-year-old businessman to save her failing estate. At a high-society gala that same night, Aspen intentionally crushed my burned hand in front of the cameras, while Kieran stood by and dismissed me as a "mediocre assistant" who had overstayed her welcome. I stood in the cold New York rain, drenched in champagne and humiliation, realizing that every sacrifice I made for Kieran was a joke. I was a ghost in a penthouse that was never mine, discarded the moment his "soulmate" returned. To the world, I was just a placeholder whose time had run out. But Kieran forgot one thing: my father’s multi-million dollar trust fund unlocks the moment I legally marry. I didn't need love; I needed a signature and a shield. I walked into a discreet law firm and signed a marriage contract with a man I believed was the city’s most notorious, scandal-ridden playboy. I thought I was marrying a degenerate "beard" to buy my freedom and secure my revenge. I didn't realize the man who signed that paper wasn't a playboy at all, but Gaston Collins—the most powerful and dangerous man on Wall Street—and he had no intention of letting our fake marriage stay fake.

The Discarded Heiress: Marrying My Lethal Husband

The Discarded Heiress: Marrying My Lethal Husband

Xiao Wang
5.0

The rain in Detroit was slick with grime when my family finally came to fetch me. They didn't want a reunion; they wanted a sacrificial lamb to marry into the Kaufman empire to save their failing business. I thought I was just being sold off, but the limo ride ended under a dark overpass where six hired thugs were waiting with chains. My own sister had ordered them to "break my spirit" so I’d be a shaking, pathetic mess by the time I reached the altar. They called me "Detroit trash" and sprayed air freshener when I sat on their leather seats. My stepmother wanted a video of me begging for my life, and my father was ready to trade me like a used car to a man everyone called a "vegetable." They expected a submissive country girl, unaware that I was a high-level "cleaner" who could snap a radius bone before they could even scream. When I finally reached the Kaufman estate, I found my fiancé, Barron, slumped in a wheelchair, drooling and silent. But as soon as the doors closed, the "invalid" grabbed my wrist with a grip of iron and whispered a command that changed everything. I didn't understand why my own blood was so desperate to see me destroyed. What had I ever done to deserve a hit squad and a forced marriage to a man they thought was a corpse? But Barron isn't a vegetable, and I'm not a victim. We just touched down at the Moon family gala in a matte-black helicopter, and as the doors slide open, the "broken" bride is about to show them exactly what happens when you throw away the wrong daughter. "If we're going to crash a party," Barron whispered, his eyes burning with lethal clarity, "we should make an entrance."

Chapters
Read Now
Download Book