When a Rake Falls by Sally Orr Page A

one big tug. Ready?”
    The boy nodded. “Ready.”
    â€œOne, two, three.” They tugged hard and their efforts proved successful as the basket slowed.
    A minute later, the farmer strode forward, grabbed the basket, and widened his stance. Then with one mighty jerk, he pulled the basket to a complete stop.
    She hugged the boy. “Thank you.” She then ran forward to gather up the harness and fold the balloon as best she could so it would remain stationary.
    The boy emulated her movements in earnest, his tan face focused on rapidly folding the silk.
    â€œNever dought I live to see ladies flying about in balloons,” the farmer remarked, removing his cap to scratch his scalp. “And it may be all right for you, miss. But what about da turnips? You’ve damaged half an acre, maybe more. Missus won’t be too happy neither.” Dressed in corduroy breeches tied at the knee and an open waistcoat, his slow manner of movement announced a hardworking man unlikely to be unsettled by any event. He had probably handled a multitude of disasters before, so no mishap could ruffle his feathers now. “Now, my lady, do you have recomp…” He rolled his limp felt hat in his hands. “The funds for turnips spoilt?”
    She glanced around at the destruction of the turnip rows. She even had quite a few leaves, not to mention dirt, on her person. “Yes, I apologize, Mister…”
    â€œAh, my name is Mr. Muckles. Missus calls me Frank. She puts good store into my judgment too. So I expect payment for damages.”
    â€œOf course, Mr. Muckles. But you see my passenger, Lord Boyce Parker, fell out of the balloon into the trees, so you must help me find him immediately. He might be injured or—”
    â€œNow don’t you go running off, payment first. Den we can search for this lord o’ yours.”
    â€œBut the circumstances of my lift-off were unusual, so you must understand the fact that I have no immediate funds on board to compensate you for your turnips.”
    Mr. Muckles headed toward the basket, straddling each row of turnips with a single stride. “Jem, let us see what we can take from dat basket—”
    She followed but struggled to keep pace. “Mr. Muckles, please. My father and I will pay you for your turnips. When I get back to London—”
    â€œLook for a good find, Jem. Some instrument or another, I suppose.”
    â€œMr. Muckles! We must search for his lordship.” The blank face that greeted this statement urged her to emphasize the logic of the situation. “If we find him now, I am sure he will pay you twice what your turnips are worth.”
    Mr. Muckles ignored her and dragged the big chest out of the basket.
    Why did he ignore the gravity of the situation? “Please, Mr. Muckles, a man’s life is at stake.”
    He looked up and brushed his hands upon his loose plaid waistcoat but showed no signs of movement toward the woods.
    â€œPlease, I insist you call for help. He could be hurt or in pain.” The thought unsettled her, and she forced it out of her mind. “Sir, Lord Boyce is an important young gentlemen. I am sure his father will be very pleased if every effort is made for his recovery.”
    He continued to pull items out of the wicker chest.
    She restrained herself from kicking him in the shins, turned, and marched toward the woods.
    Once she reached the beginning of the trees, her heart sank with the discovery of a thick undergrowth of bracken, gorse, ferns, and brambles. She ran up and down the edge, looking for a footpath, stopping only to cup her hands and yell, “Lord Boyce.” No response. “Parker.” She repeated her call again and again only louder. “Parker.”
    Mr. Muckles and Jem reached the edge of the woods and waited until she moved closer. “Well, miss, we have a machine labeled ‘barrowmeter’ from de box of instruments in da wagon. Dat should