"When the British were very near Fort Duquesne," continued Mr. Emerson, "the French sent out a small band, mainly Indians, to meet them. The English general didn't understand Indian fighting and kept his men ma.s.sed in the road where they were shot down in great numbers and he lost his own life. There's a town named after him, on the site of the battle."

"Here it is," and Helen pointed it out on the map in the railway folder.

"It's about ten miles from Pittsburg."

"Washington took command after the death of Braddock, and this was his first real military experience. However, his heart was in the taking of Fort Duquesne and when General Forbes was sent out to make another attempt at capturing it Washington commanded one of the regiments of Virginia troops."

"Isn't there any poetry about it?" demanded Ethel Brown, who knew her grandfather's habit of collecting historical ballads.

"Certainly there is. There are some verses on 'Fort Duquesne' by Florus Plimpton written for the hundredth anniversary of the capture."

"Did they have a great old fight to take the fort?" asked Roger.

"No fight at all. Here's what Plimpton says:--

"So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind, And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind, And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in fright At the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire light.

"Good Lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky, As though h.e.l.l's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high!

Up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems riven By the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven!

"O, there was clattering of steel and mustering in array, And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay, As came the scouts swift-footed in--'They fly! the foe! they fly!

They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky.'

"All the English had to do was to walk in, put out the fire, repair the fort and re-name it."

"What did they call it?"

"After the great statesman--Fort Pitt."

"That's where 'Pittsburg' got its name, then! I never thought about its being in honor of Pitt!" exclaimed Helen.

"It is 'Pitt's City,'" rejoined her grandfather. "And this street," he added somewhat later when they were speeding in a motor bus to a hotel near the park, "this street is Forbes Street, named after the British general. Somewhere there is a Bouquet Street, to commemorate another hero of the war."

"I saw 'Duquesne Way' marked on the map," announced Ethel Blue.

On the following morning they awakened to find themselves opposite a large and beautiful park with a ma.s.s of handsome buildings rising impressively at the entrance.

"It is Schenley Park and the buildings house the Carnegie Inst.i.tute.

We'll go over them by and bye."

"It's a library," guessed d.i.c.ky, who was not too young to have the steelmaker's name a.s.sociated with libraries in his youthful mind.

"It is a library and a fine one. There's also a Music Hall and an art museum and a natural history museum. You'll see more fossil ferns there, and the skeleton of a diplodocus--"

"A dip-what?" demanded Roger.

"Diplodocus, with the accent on the _plod_; one of the hugest animals that ever walked the earth. They found the bones of this monster almost complete in Colorado and wired them together so you can get an idea of what really 'big game' was like in the early geological days."

"How long is he?"

"If all the ten members of the U.S.C. were to take hold of hands and stretch along his length there would be s.p.a.ce for four or five more to join the string."

"Where's my hat?" demanded Roger. "I want to go over and make that fellow's acquaintance instanter."

"When you go, notice the wall paintings," said his mother. "They show the manufacture and uses of steel and they are considered among the finest things of their kind in America. Alexander, the artist, did them.

You've seen some of his work at the Metropolitan Museum in New York."

"Pittsburg has the good sense to have a city organist," Mr. Emerson continued. "Every Sunday afternoon he plays on the great organ in the auditorium and the audience drifts in from the park and drifts out to walk farther, and in all several thousand people hear some good music in the course of the afternoon."

"There seem to be some separate buildings behind the Inst.i.tute."

"The Technical Schools, and beyond them is the Margaret Morrison School where girls may learn crafts and domestic science and so on."

"It's too bad it isn't a clear day," sighed Ethel Blue, as she rose from the table.

"This is a bright day, Miss," volunteered the waiter who handed her her unnecessary sunshade.

"You call this clear?" Mrs. Morton asked him.

"Yes, madam, this is a bright day for Pittsburg."

When they set forth they shook their heads over the townsman's idea of a clear day, for the sky was overcast and clouds of dense black smoke rolled together from the two sides of the city and met over their heads.

"It's from the steel mills," Mr. Emerson explained as he advised Ethel Brown to wipe off a smudge of soot that had settled on her cheek and warned his daughter that if she wanted to preserve the whiteness of her gloves she had better replace them by colored ones until she returned to a cleaner place.

They were to take the afternoon train up the Monongahela River to the town from which Stanley Clark had sent his wire telling his uncle that "Emily Leonard married a man named Smith," but there were several hours to devote to sightseeing before train time, and the party went over Schenley Park with thoroughness, investigated several of the "inclines"

which carried pa.s.sengers from the river level to the top of the heights above, motored among the handsome residences and ended, on the way to the station, with a flying visit to the old blockhouse which is all that is left of Port Pitt.

"So this is really a blockhouse," Helen said slowly as she looked at the little two story building with its heavy beams.

"There are the musket holes," Ethel Brown pointed out.

"This is really where soldiers fought before the Revolution!"

"It really is," her mother a.s.sured her. "It is in the care of one of the historical societies now; that's why it is in such good condition."

Roger had secured the tickets and had telephoned to the hotel at Brownsville for rooms so they took their places in the train with no misgivings as to possible discomfort at night. Their excitement was beginning to rise, however, for two reasons. In the first place they had been quite as disturbed as Dorothy and her mother over the difficulties attending the purchase of the field and the Fitz-James Woods, and the later developments in connection with the man, Hapgood. Now that they were approaching the place where they knew Stanley Clark was working out the clue they began to feel the thrill that comes over explorers on the eve of discovery.

The other reason for excitement lay in the fact that Mr. Emerson had promised them some wonderful sights before they reached their destination. He had not told them what they were, although he had mentioned something about fairyland that had started an abundant flow of questions from d.i.c.ky. Naturally they were all alert to find out what novelty their eyes were to see.

"I saw one novelty this afternoon," said Roger. "When I stepped into that little stationery shop to get a newspaper I noticed in the rear a queer tin thing with what looked like cotton wool sticking against its back wall. I asked the woman who sold the papers what it was."

"Trust Roger for not letting anything pa.s.s him," smiled Ethel Brown.

"That's why I'm such a cyclopedia of accurate information, ma'am,"

Roger retorted. "She said it was a stove."

"With cotton wool for fuel?" laughed Ethel Blue.

"It seems they use natural gas here for heating as well as cooking, and the woolly stuff was asbestos. The gas is turned on at the foot of the back wall and the asbestos becomes heated and gives off warmth but doesn't burn."