The Brothers Spratt

The wind was blowing gently west-southwest. Two church steeples in the town of Bedford veered away below the balloon as the Spratt brothers dropped their leaflets, and before long two more spires appeared above the trees in the town of Concord.

“Two churches apiece they got, Jack,” said Jake.

“Right you are, Jake,” said Jack. “Two apiece.”

Looking down, they could see Hector. He was standing up in his wagon, whooping at his tired old horse as it galloped after them along the road.

Now the main street of Concord opened out below them. Pale Concord faces gazed up. Jake slid the lid halfway over the firebox, and the balloon drifted lower over the housetops so that everyone could read the painted words on the bag:

J. & J. SPRATT

PORTRAIT AND AERIAL

PHOTOGRAPHY

Jake picked up another bundle of pamphlets, dropped them over the side, and watched them flutter down on the street. Some lodged on rooftops, some disappeared in the leafy canopies of elm trees, some fell on the muddy road, and some were caught by eager hands reaching up.

“Whoopsie, Jake,” said Jack, because the wind was shifting into another quarter.

“Going due west now, Jack,” said Jake, and he opened the firebox again to lift the balloon high over the road to Nashoba. As it rose, he leaned out to look for Hector. Had he caught up? Yes, there was the wagon, a speck in the distance, with Hector’s old horse pounding along at a gallop.

Jake made a huge pointing gesture—West, Hector, we’re heading west—and Hector understood. He was waving his hat in the same direction.

“This here must be Nashoba, Jake,” said Jack as the next town came in sight.

“Right you are, Jack,” said Jake. “Hey, Jack, look at that there big tree.”

“What tree, Jake?” said Jack.

“Down there in the graveyard, Jack. See there?”

“My goodness, Jake. I ain’t never seen such a big old granddaddy tree.”

“Whoopsie, Jack. I almost forgot.” Nimbly, Jake untied another packet of pamphlets and dropped them over the side. Once again, hands reached up and children ran after fluttering scraps of paper. Looking back, Jack and Jake saw the main street of Nashoba drifting away behind them, until only the low dome of the church steeple was visible above the trees.

“Wind’s died,” said Jake. “We’d best go down.”

“Where to, Jake? In that there field?”

“See if Hector’s a-coming, Jack,” said Jake, closing the firebox.

“Yep, Jake. I see his horse and wagon. That poor old nag, she’s weaving all over the road.”

“Poor thing must be wore-out,” said Jake. “Whoopsie! Hang on, Jack.”

The basket settled with a bump in the pasture, tipped, dragged, bounced, tipped, dragged, and at last came to a stop in the grassy stubble between two flabbergasted cows.