Free What a Trip! by Tony Abbott Page A

out of town and across the deserty spaces east of San Francisco. Soon it was nighttime, then morning of the next day. By noon we were already deep into what Mr. Fogg called the Great Basin, which was not a huge sink, but a flat area of land between California and the Rockies.
    Everyone jammed up to the windows to get a look, but Frankie and I decided we needed a better view. Scrambling up the short metal ladder to the roof of the car, we ran and jumped from car to car until we were at the front. Soon we entered a flat, wide desert.
    â€œIt’s awesome out here,” said Frankie, sitting cross-legged on the roof. “Where exactly are we?”
    I popped open the book again and found the page. “It’s called the Great Salt Lake Desert.”
    â€œWhy do they call it that?” she asked.
    â€œBecause it’s near the Great Salt Lake,” I said.
    â€œI see a city up ahead.”
    â€œThat’s Salt Lake City.”
    â€œSort of ran out of names, didn’t they?”
    A little while later, as we were passing through what I read was southern Wyoming, the train pulled to a stop before an old bridge. Frankie and I climbed down to take a look. It was a wooden bridge built over a deep chasm in the rocks. A man was standing before the bridge, waving a red flag.
    â€œThe bridge is too shaky,” he called out to everyone. “Sorry, but it won’t bear the weight of the train.”
    â€œLeave Detective Fix behind,” Frankie whispered.
    â€œAnd his mustache, too,” I added.
    â€œWhat are we to do here?” Passepartout asked. “Shiver in the freezing cold?”
    â€œI’ve telegraphed to Omaha, Nebraska, for a train to come to the other side of the chasm,” the flag waver said. “You can cross the bridge on foot to meet it.”
    â€œWhen will the train from Omaha come?” Fogg asked.
    â€œSix hours,” said the man.
    Frankie checked her watch. “No, we can’t spare the time. There must be another way.”
    But no one could think of one. So I cracked that old classic open and read the next page. “Whoa!” I gasped.
    â€œDo you have an idea?” asked Aouda.
    â€œNo, but the train’s engineer does. Let’s find him!”
    The engineer was a little guy in a grease-stained uniform. He sat on a small stool in a small cabin just behind the engine. We told him what the flagman said.
    â€œThe bridge isn’t safe, it’s true,” he said. “But, well, it might be possible to get across. If the train got up to its very top speed, it might lessen the train’s weight and get us over faster.”
    I thought about that. “Is it like when you make a running leap, it goes longer than a standing jump?”
    The engineer nodded. “A bit like that. I’ve known it to happen. Once or twice.”
    Frankie chewed her lip. “Um, not great odds …”
    But Mr. Fogg turned his head slightly. He almost got excited for an instant. Then he calmly said, “Listen to the boy and the engineer. Their idea seems a good one.”
    â€œWhoa, yes!” I said, punching the air. “My idea!”
    In an instant, everyone was agreed.
    Well, almost everyone. As the train whistled and squealed, then reversed itself, backing up for nearly a mile, Frankie gave me a look. “Devin, I sure hope this works—”
    Eeeee! The engine let out a huge loud burst of steam, the engineer pulled the whistle, and the train burst into speed, heading for the wobbly bridge.
    Faster and faster we drove. The train rushed along the tracks, gaining more and more speed until we were going nearly a hundred miles an hour. The rails were screaming when we finally reached the bridge.
    It seemed as if the train actually leaped from one side to the other. In fact, we were going so fast, no one even saw the bridge. It was over in a flash.
    â€œWe did it!” I said, jumping up and down and shaking everyone’s hand.