Free The Trainmasters by Jesse Taylor Croft

who proceeded to reel in the line that
     tethered the balloon to the ground.
    “I’d like to fly again,” John said. “Do you take passengers on longer flights?”
    “Not often,” said the Frenchman. “But I could perhaps do that.”
    “How far was your longest flight?” Alex asked.
    “How far?” Goddard repeated. “Oh, I don’t know how far. Perhaps a hundred miles? Perhaps more.”
    “How long did that take?” Alex asked.
    “Seven hours. Eight hours,” the Frenchman said.
    “Eight hours? But that is incredibly
slowl
” Alex said, finding that hard to believe in this age of fast trains.
    “I am at the mercy of the winds,” Goddard apologized. “And yet in the air I am free,” he added poetically.
    “But trains are faster.”
    “Someday,” Goddard said, “there will be an engine made small enough to propel balloons through the sky. And then we will see
     whether your trains are faster.”
    John was about to counter this silly idea when David’s voice interrupted, ending the discussion.
    “Look!” he called out. “Down there! A horse race!” His hand pointed to a racecourse that John had not previously seen. Two
     gorgeous animals were galloping like the wind down the straightaway. As they approached the turn, the balloon’s descent brought
     the passengers below the brow of a hill, concealing the race’s outcome.
    And then the balloon touched down.

    The Fairmount Park Pleasure Ground Association’s Sunday afternoon race meeting was almost over. Only the final race remained
     to be run, a match race between Mr. William Patterson’s roan stallion Berber and a bay gelding called Emerald, which belonged
     to Mr. Otis Todd of Frederick, Maryland. Emerald had handily taken all challengers in Maryland. And Berber had not lost in
     eastern Pennsylvania. So the race promised to be a great one.
    Patterson’s specially invited guests for this race were Daniel Drew and Cornelius Vanderbilt, both of New York City. William
     Astor had also been invited, but he had pleaded religious obligations and was unable to attend.
    Patterson, Drew, and Vanderbilt occupied a table, one of several that had been placed on the association’s outdoor veranda.
     This wide and spacious porch was attached to the second floor of the association’s clubhouse, which overlooked the racetrack.
     The view of the track was spectacular. Each of the three men held whiskey glasses, and there was a three-quarters full decanter
     in the table’s center.
    Drew and Vanderbilt, who were business friends, had hit it off famously with Patterson during the dinner the night before,
     talking, laughing, and trading tales and gossip. And the high spirits of the night before had continued on into their gathering
     here at the racecourse.
    This pleased William Patterson more than a little, for he was unusually uneasy before and during his meetings with Vanderbilt
     and Drew. If these discussions succeeded as he planned and hoped then he would be able to use part of their great wealth to
     save not only the railroad, but his own fortune as well. If the conversation did not go well, however, Patterson would be
     ruined.
    William Patterson was a tall, well-built man, handsome in a vacant sort of way. Quick to smile, quick with an amusing word
     or anecdote, he was well liked by his peers in the Philadelphia “aristocracy.” But he was more than a little over his head,
     many felt, in his role as president of the Pennsylvania Railroad.
    Daniel Drew was clearly an aristocrat. He was short and ugly, with a very limited education and an outrageously coarse tongue.
     And he was not famous for honesty. Years earlier, he had gotten his start in upstate New York as a cattle drover. By feeding
     large doses of salt to his stock just before selling them. Drew forced the cattle to drink great quantities of water, driving
     up their weight and, consequently, Drew’s income from their sale. After this practice of Drew’s became well known, a new term