Dennis McCann knew a lot about New Orleans. He had been spending days
exploring the town every time he got into port, and there were few
corners into which he had not penetrated. He took Tad and Abe a good
ten miles that Sunday afternoon, and Tad, at least, was footsore before
they finished.
First the mate of the _Ohio Belle_ led them northward and eastward
through the hot streets to the green flats at the rear of the town. As
they went they were joined by other groups bound in the same direction,
and soon they found themselves part of a huge throng, all moving
steadily out toward the Congo Plains.
Rising above the dust of the crowds, they saw the rough timber
amphitheater of the bull ring, and near it the gaudy-hued canvas
of a huge tent. There was no bullfight scheduled for that day, but
Cayetano’s famous circus was in full swing.
Pushing forward with the throng, they entered the big top, where
snake-charmers and sleek-skinned yellow dancers vied for attention
with two-headed calves, fat ladies, and real wild animals in cages.
The latter appealed most to Abe. He had read of lions in _Æsop’s
Fables_, but never had he beheld one nor heard one roar, and Tad
laughed to see the six-foot Hoosier jump and shiver when that bass
thunder sounded behind him.
When they had finished with the circus, McCann led the way to another
marvel--the roadbed of the New Orleans and Pontchartrain Railway which
was to connect the city with the lake on the north.
This was to be one of the first steam railroads in the world, and Abe
and Tad looked with awe on the preparations for it. People even said
that with a steam engine on wheels, such as the owners proposed to run,
you could pull half a dozen big wagons at once along level rails!
“As strong as six teams of horses, Abe! Do you believe that?” asked Tad.
“Yes,” said the backwoodsman, “reckon I do, after seein’ a steamboat
work. But when they tell me this thing is _faster_ than horses, I’ll
admit I’m a leetle bit doubtful.”
They came back in the cool of the early evening and strolled along
the levee above the town to the park-like drive where a long parade
of carriages wound among the China trees. Planters and their wives,
aristocratic Creole families, and the beautiful women of the free
quadroon caste went smiling by, behind their smartly trotting horses.
From a little lake a flock of pelicans rose on heavy wings and flapped
away across the sunset to their nests. Fireflies began to twinkle in
the gathering dusk. A guitar was strumming softly near by.
“Golly,” murmured Tad, “I shouldn’t wonder if Heaven must be something
like this!”
Abe’s face was overspread by a grin. “Only,” said he, “in Heaven the
folks have wings, an’ the mosquitoes don’t.” And he emphasized his
remark by slapping himself on the back of the neck.
They strolled back through a summer night that was breathlessly hot in
the narrow streets and cooled by a little breeze along the levee.
“Huh,” mused Abe. “Here it’s actin’ like mid-July, an’ in a couple o’
weeks I’ll be back in May again, with the trees jes’ comin’ into full
leaf an’ the lilacs hardly done bloomin’ in the dooryards.”
“When’ll ye be leavin’?” asked McCann. “We’ve got ’most a cargo now,
an’ if ye were ready by tomorrer, say, I might get ye a berth an’ a
chance to earn yer board loadin’ wood fer the engines.”
Abe thanked him. “First of all,” said he, “I want to see Tad out o’
this scrape. An’ second, I’ve got to keep my partner, Allen Gentry,
from gittin’ _into_ one, when he sells his goods. After that I’d be
pleased to ship with you.”
As they parted from McCann at the gangplank of the _Ohio Belle_, the
little Irishman pointed to Poke, snoring comfortably at the end of his
chain on deck.
“See,” he laughed, “the little spalpeen is right at home. I’ll give ye
three dollars fer him.”
Tad considered a moment. He could hardly hope to keep the cub with him,
either in the city or at school, while with McCann he knew the little
bear would be in good hands.
“Right,” he answered regretfully, and the transaction was completed,
then and there. As the boy trudged along at Abe’s side, he pulled the
money out of his pocket.
“Here,” said he, “this’ll pay for those pants, Abe. And anyway, the
bear was really yours. You saved his life and then wrestled for him.”
“No sech of a thing!” said Abe warmly. “That b’ar b’longed to you.”
But Tad was adamant, and his big friend finally took the money, on
condition that he should buy them both a supper out of it. Accordingly
they stopped at the next tavern and ordered a meal. The table at which
they sat was at the rear of the sanded floor near one end of the bar.
A cosmopolitan throng of sailors and up-river men were drinking and
quarreling noisily along the mahogany rail, and Tad watched them while
Abe picked the bones of his fricasseed chicken.
Suddenly, in the crowd, he caught sight of a familiar back and saw a
hand filled with banknotes waving in the air.
“Quick, Abe!” said the boy. “Isn’t that Allen with all that money?”
The long-shanked backwoodsman turned, pushing back his chair, and
looked where Tad was pointing. At that moment a big German sailor
reached over the heads of the eager fellows who surrounded Allen,
seized his wrist with one hand, and snatched away the bills with the
other. It was all done so quickly that none of the men at the bar knew
what had happened, and Allen was left speechless, his empty fingers
clawing at the air.
Then Abe entered the picture. In three long strides he reached the
sailor, who was just edging toward the door. The man’s back was toward
him. Abe caught him by the shoulder with iron fingers and jerked him
around. And almost in the same motion he drove a solid smash to the
fellow’s chin with his right fist.
The sailor lost his balance, staggered back a step or two, and toppled
to the floor. Quick as a flash Abe was on top of him, gripping his
wrists in those big, horny paws of his. With an anguished groan the
German let go of the roll of money, and Abe, picking it up, jumped
to his feet. As he did so an empty bottle whizzed past his head, and
half a dozen sailormen charged toward him from all parts of the room.
Instantly pandemonium was let loose. With wild yells of delight the
river-men, always ready for a fight, set upon the deep-water sailors,
and in ten seconds the place was filled with fiercely struggling groups.
Abe stuffed the bills into the breast of his shirt and battled his way
toward the door, where Tad was already waiting for him. In a moment
Allen broke through the mob in front of the bar and joined them. His
“store clothes” were disheveled, and one eye was nearly closed by a
rapidly swelling bruise.
“Run--run!” he panted, and dodged down an alley with the two others
following him. Not until they had zigzagged through the dark for two
blocks and were out on the open levee front did Allen settle down once
more to a walk.
“Great shiverin’ snakes!” he gasped, “I was glad to git clear o’ that
place! Did ye see ’em start to pull their knives? Why, thar was enough
dirks an’ daggers out to slaughter a regiment.”
Silently Abe handed the crumpled banknotes back to their owner. A few
steps farther he stopped. “You boys wait here,” he said. “I forgot
somethin’, but I’ll be right back.”
Dumfounded, they watched him stride along the levee in the direction
from which they had just come.
“Whar in Sam Hill kin he be goin’?” muttered Allen. They waited with
growing nervousness for several minutes. And just as Tad was starting
to see what had happened, he reappeared.
“Where were you, Abe?” the boy asked.
“I’d clean forgot to pay fer our supper,” Abe replied. “Things had
quieted down thar a mite, but one pore feller was bleedin’ terrible.
Cut pretty bad, I guess.”
“Wal,” said Allen, looking at him, pop-eyed, “if you ain’t the
gol-durnedest!”
“How’d you come to have all that money?” inquired Abe. “Must have sold
the cargo, didn’t ye?”
Allen nodded. “A man come along the levee this afternoon offerin’
scandalous low prices fer flour an’ pork. I was gittin’ sick o’
waitin’; so I dickered with him. I got him to raise his figger a
little, an’ he ’greed to take the boat, too. Anyhow, Father’ll be
satisfied.”
“He won’t if you go in any more saloons an’ git it stole,” said Abe. “I
reckon on board a steamboat is the safest place fer you an’ me.”
They returned to the _Katy Roby_, now empty save for their blankets
and personal belongings, a few cooking utensils, and a small pile of
firewood.
“The old gal looks sort o’ lonesome, don’t she?” said Abe. “Wal,
her timbers’ll make a stout shanty fer somebody. There’s not a
cross-grained stick in her hull. I know, because I cut an’ trimmed ’em
myself.”
The other two were silent, for they also felt a twinge of homesickness
at the idea of leaving the craft. Tad stretched out on the bare
planking, ready for sleep after his miles of barefoot exploration. Soon
he dropped off, in spite of the raucous chorus of drunken river-men
returning to their boats, and it was to bright morning sunlight that he
next opened his eyes. Abe was busy preparing some odds and ends of food
for breakfast, while Allen sat back and plucked at his banjo strings.
It was the old tune of “Skip to my Lou” that he was singing, but he had
invented some new verses. Two of them were:
“N’Orleans gals, you’re feelin’ blue,
N’Orleans gals, you’re feelin’ blue,
N’Orleans gals, you’re feelin’ blue,
Skip to my Lou, my darlin’.
“We’re bound to say good-by to you,
We’re bound to say good-by to you,
We’re bound to say good-by to you,
Skip to my Lou, my darlin’.”
He rolled his eyes sentimentally as he sang, and Abe chuckled over the
frying-pan. “Wait till he gits back to Gentryville!” he said. “Folks
up thar will git the idee that the whole valley’s littered up with the
hearts he’s broke.”
When breakfast was finished, Abe rolled up his ax and one or two other
things he owned in his blanket, tied it with a rope, and laid it to one
side.
“Now, Tad,” said he, “we’ll go an’ rouse out this man McCann, so he kin
tell that lunkhead in your father’s office who you are.”
They took their way along the levee in the direction of the steamboat
landings. When they had covered a little over half the distance, they
saw a two-horse carriage coming rapidly toward them, and as it drew
close, Abe pulled Tad out of its path behind a pile of baled cotton.
Thus it was not until the carriage had gone past that the boy had a
good look at its occupant. He was a big-framed man of middle age, in
a beaver hat that looked travel-stained. His head and shoulders were
bowed slightly as if by a burden.
Tad seized Abe’s arm. “That was my Dad!” he said. “He’s on his way to
the office from the boat. Come on!”
Quickly they turned and followed the carriage toward the older section
of the town. A few minutes of alternate running and walking brought
them to St. Louis Street, and at the curb, sure enough, they saw the
carriage drawn up.
They went into the building and up the stairs, two at a time. The door
of the office stood ajar. Tad entered first. There at his desk on the
other side of the room sat his father, looking so gray and sad and
careworn that Tad felt a great lump in his throat at the sight. He
tried to shout “Dad!” but all that came was a choking sound.
The officious young secretary advanced from his corner with what was
intended for a threatening scowl, but Tad paid no attention to him.
Then Jeremiah Hopkins must have sensed that something was happening,
for he looked up wearily from the papers in his hands and saw a boy at
the gate--a ragged, barefoot youngster, brown as an Indian, with a mop
of sandy hair and a mouth that grinned broadly while his eyes blinked
back something suspiciously like tears.
“D-don’t you know me, Dad?” said the boy. And then Jeremiah Hopkins ran
toward him and they caught each other in a bear-like hug.
The father’s heart was too full for words, but he held the lad at arm’s
length and looked at him as if he could never get enough of the sight.
Tad’s power of speech came back to him first, and he talked in happy,
jumbled sentences, trying to tell everything at once.
“I wrote to you, Dad,” he said, “but, you see, you never got my letter
because it was blown up. It was on the _Nancy Jones_. But it’s too bad
you worried so about me. I was all right. Abe, here, was taking care of
me, and-- Come, I want you to meet him. Abe--”
But the young husky from Indiana was gone. He had slipped out quietly
as soon as he saw his friend safe in his father’s arms.
Tad ran down the stairs and looked up and down the street, but the
lanky figure was nowhere in sight. Distressed, he returned to his
father. “We must find him,” he said. “You’ve got to know Abe, because
he’s the best friend I ever had. Why, he saved my life!”
The young secretary, very crestfallen, came forward. “I--I think he
went toward the levee, sir,” said he.
“You should have asked him to wait,” the merchant answered curtly.
“We’ll go in search of him directly, Tad, my boy. But first come and
get some clothes on.”
They got into the carriage and were driven, despite the boy’s
protestations, to Mr. Hopkins’ hotel, where the clothes found in the
stateroom on the steamboat had been taken. In a few minutes Tad was
dressed once more in the garb of civilization.
“Now,” said he, “tell the coachman we want to go to the flatboat
moorings as fast as he can drive.”
Through the streets and along the levee they rumbled and drew up at
last where Tad pointed to the _Katy Roby_, tied up in the middle of the
swarming river-craft. But Abe and Allen were nowhere to be seen.
The stout Kentucky man sat on the rail of his boat, near the levee, and
spat judicially into the river before he answered Tad’s eager query.
“No,” said he, finally. “They ain’t here. They done picked up their
blankets an’ stuff an’ put out fer the steamboat landin’ some while
back. Said they was goin’ to go on the _Ohio Belle_ if they got thar
’fore she sailed.”
Hurriedly the Hopkinses, father and son, climbed back into the
carriage, and the coachman used his whip as they galloped toward the
smoky forest of steamboat stacks.
“She’s not gone yet,” cried Tad. “I can see her.”
But just then there came a long, deep whistle-blast, and one of the
great white steamers began to move slowly away from the levee side. The
carriage rolled up to the landing, and the coachman pulled the rearing
horses to a stop. As Tad jumped out he saw a tall, awkward youth in
homespun and deerskin waving to him from the forward rail of the upper
deck.
“Abe,” he cried, “wait! wait!”
“Come back!” shouted his father, “I want to give you the reward.” And
he held up a fat black wallet.
One of Abe’s quaint grins overspread his homely face. “No,” he called
back. “He was a good hand an’ earned his keep.”
Tad ran forward to the edge of the levee and cupped his hands about his
mouth. “Abe,” he yelled, “what’s your last name? I want to write to
you.”
“Lincoln,” the backwoods boy replied. “Jest send it to Gentryville.
They’ll see that I git it.”
Then with a clang of bells and a great splashing of foam as her paddles
beat the water, the _Ohio Belle_ swung out into the current and headed
upstream. And the last thing Tad saw was Abe picking up the little
bear, Poke, in his arms, and waving one of the cub’s black paws in a
comical good-by.
_other books by STEPHEN W. MEADER_
THE BLACK BUCCANEER
DOWN THE BIG RIVER
LONGSHANKS
RED HORSE HILL
AWAY TO SEA
KING OF THE HILLS
LUMBERJACK
THE WILL TO WIN AND OTHER STORIES
WHO RIDES IN THE DARK?
T-MODEL TOMMY
BAT
BOY WITH A PACK
CLEAR FOR ACTION
BLUEBERRY MOUNTAIN
SHADOW IN THE PINES
THE SEA SNAKE
THE LONG TRAINS ROLL
SKIPPY’S FAMILY
JONATHAN GOES WEST
BEHIND THE RANGES
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized or underlined text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.