“I am an inventor, and my latest contrivance is a flying ice boat, with which I have planned to visit the mysterious land of Nova Zembla. As my course will be the same as that of the ship Red Eric it is more than likely that I shall fall in with that whaling ship. If I don’t I’ll hunt for it. If I find her I shall save your son. I swear it, for I have the means of doing so.” His words were so emphatic that renewed hope was aroused in the heart of the half-distracted mother, and she dried her tears and asked: “When do you intend to undertake this journey, sir?” “Within a few days,” Frank replied. “My flying ice ship is nearly finished. I came to Boston to get the few things I need to complete her. To-morrow I am going home; but ere I leave this city I shall make it my business to help you to have Alfred Milburn arrested, so you can recover possession of the fortune of which he designs to rob you.” “God bless you, Frank Reade,” the lady exclaimed, feelingly. After some further talk they parted for the night. The inventor was accompanied by a little old negro named Pomp, and a rollicking, red-headed, pug-nosed Irishman named Barney O’Shea, who always went with him on his travels, and lived in Readestown. Both were inveterate practical jokers; the coon was a good cook and played the banjo, and the Celt was an expert violinist, and ever ready for a fight or fun of any kind, while both were greatly devoted to the inventor. They were domiciled in the hotel with Frank. On the following morning the coon woke up early, dressed himself, and going out into the hall heard Barney snoring in his room. “Golly! wha’ lazy feller dat I’ishman am,” muttered the darky, with a grin, as he paused outside of Barney’s room. “Specs he sleep de whole lib long day ef I done let him. Wondah if I kin git in dar?” He tried the door, found it unlocked, and entered the bedroom. The Celt lay on his back, with his month wide open, and Pomp stole over to the wash-basin, turned on the freezing cold water full force, put his finger over the faucet, and squirted it at the sleeper. Swish—plunk! went the jet against the Irishman’s eye. Then a steady stream flew all over his face. He gave a sudden start, the snoring ceased, and he sat up very much confused from being awakened so violently. The cold water continued to squirt on him, and he gave a wild yell. “Murdher! I’m dhrowndin’!” he howled. Then he bounced out of bed. Fizz—swish—flipp! continued the stream. Barney only wore a red flannel undershirt, and as the cold liquid flew about his limbs he jumped up in the air, his teeth chattering, his hair on end, and roar after roar pealing from his lips. “Begorra! I’m a dead man!” he roared, as he rushed, danced, hopped and galloped around the room, followed by the cold stream and the laughter of the mischievous coon. “Howly beans! ther roofs leakin’! Ther poipes bushted! Ther house is afoire! Help! Help!”