Hiram and I were soon ready for the next thing in order—something to eat.

"I suppose now you will want a porterhouse as big as Rhode Island——"

"And as thick as a London fog, with enough mushrooms to choke an alligator," he broke in joyously. "Ben—I want you to know right now that I think you are an infernal scoundrel. You know why my brand-new typewriter blew up this morning and started the whole of Quarrytown over into the river, incidentally putting the main line on the bum—and won't tell me!" he added, squaring himself in front of me.

"You'd better wait until to-morrow and see what your sentence is before you begin to accuse me," I replied, with a solemn wink which he couldn't quite fathom.

"Oh, I suppose the 'Sauerkraut' and I will get bounced incontinently. But what do I care? Had it not been for what happened this morning I wouldn't know that a perfectly sweet and innocent girl really loves me. I don't care if this part of the world comes to an end, you can't get me into the doldrums. Besides, I know my hands are clean, and I have done nothing for which they should blame me, but they may be looking for a horrible example—a railroad is a railroad—eh, Ben?"

Then, assuming a more serious attitude, he continued:

"I've got a trade now—a way of making a living. I can walk up the street and look any man or woman in the eye, as one who can account for himself, who can do something useful, and at the same time possess the love of a good girl—it's great, Ben! Do you know anything about such things? I shall be no man's dog in the future. Already I've kicked the can off of my tail, to use a figure of speech."

"I don't quite understand you, Hiram," said I, recalling the fact that this was the second time he had referred to some such handicap.

"I've been up there on the river where it's so quiet that one's own thoughts are as loud as grand opera, and I have figured it out," he began, inserting his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest and moving over to look out of the window. "Of course, you understand, I used the word dog as a figure of speech, but what I mean is that the Gold-Beater, instead of making me work and learn something at the right time, gave me money to spend, and then, along with old women and maidens, old men, and gentry in general, he winked knowingly, indulgently, as I was toboganning to Hades; then of a sudden, inside of a day, I am kicked out, and told to go to work or—Blazes—he didn't care which—me with my head as empty as a base drum and muscles as soft as a jelly fish. Oh, I'm not exactly sore on the Gold-Beater—he did no worse than a million others, but it's all wrong, Ben," he emphasized, turning his eyes upon me.

I preferred not to take him seriously.

"Hiram, there's a store on the corner where we can get a soap box, and I'll try to arrange with the police for a place in the square——"

"Oh, I see you are like the rest of them; your head is like a cocoanut—a shell that you have to open with a hatchet; then some soft, indigestible stuff, and real brains no more than the milk space inside. Come on, let's get some food," he sneered, grabbing me by the arm, and fairly rushing me out on the street.

He spent most of the evening talking about Anna Bell Morgan and his plans. Like every man in love, he gave me a poor idea of her—but I inferred she was about twenty-two, and from my distant view of her I knew she did not run to flesh. I was ready to give her a high mark on that score.

"Suppose you'll marry her at once?" said I, arching my brows knowingly.

"Oh, no; not yet; she says I must make good before she will marry me," he replied in answer to my query, "and besides, she has plans. She wants to learn something, too. She is coming down to New Orleans to go to school—her father has promised her that for a long time. Perhaps that mule team going through the front of the store may delay things, but not long. Anna Bell has been helping with his books and knows a lot for one who has always been shut in."

The next evening when I heard him coming up the stairs four steps at a time I backed into a corner. When he felt that way I knew I would get a thump on my back equal to being kicked by an ox.

"Ben, you scoundrel, come out of there; I want to hit you. I've got it—I've got it this time right!" he began, reaching for me excitedly, and playful as a young lion. "I believe it's all your work—I'm promoted—I didn't get bounced; the big chief did the handsome thing—right here in New Orleans!" This was as coherent as he was able to make himself.

"Sit down, Hiram;—what is he going to give you?"

"Going to give me? I've already got it; been at work all day. Four tracks on the wharf. Got charge of all the perishable freight—meat incoming and fruit outgoing—office to myself on the dock. First thing I did was to wire Anna Bell—then went to it. Great job, Ben, and I'm going to like it. Got a new typewriter to replace the one I lost. Beats Quarrytown, and twice the money. Why don't you warm up and congratulate me?" he almost shouted, rising quickly from the chair and reaching for my shoulders again, but I dodged him.

"Already received a wire from Anna Bell," he continued. "She's a great girl; the best ever. You sly old dog, you knew it was the box we were using for a stool; I can see it now, but do you know, I somehow feel sorry for Gus; he was just love-sick—he didn't know half the time what he was doing. He was not so much to blame, but Anna Bell wasn't to blame, either, for she never led him on."

"What did they do for him?" I interrupted, fearful that he would lose his breath entirely.

"I did all I could to save him, and they didn't fire him. They gave him another night station somewhere in the swamps. But say, I've got to step pretty lively to keep up with this job—however, it won't be so bad when I get things straightened out," he bubbled. At first I was afraid he had been drinking, but it was just Hiram Strong, Jr., finding himself.

I had something special on for that night, or I think he would have talked me to sleep. He made me promise to come around the next day and see his layout. As I left him, he began writing to Anna Bell, telling her all about everything.

When I saw him the next afternoon, he had on a hickory jumper and cap, and was bossing the final cleaning of a long, roofed-over wharf, strewn with broken cases, trash and dirt—the accumulation of years.

As soon as he saw me he began to smile. He was full of energy, urging the negro laborers to take away the last load, so that he could leave on time. He pointed out how he had charge of the tracks on the wharf. The worst feature of the situation was that he had to be there at 4.30 a. m. with Government meat inspectors, to let the packing-house people have their meat early, but he was through about the middle of the afternoon, as soon as the north-bound fruit was loaded.

"That means you must get out about four in the morning?"

"Yes, but I don't mind that."

"Hiram, it is not so long ago that you did not think seriously of going to bed until that time."

"Yes, that's a fact—but," said he, sobering, "it seems an age and appears to me now like a nightmare. Say, do you want to make an investment?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly, and assuming the air of good-natured bargaining that seemed so natural with him.

"Yes, what is it?"

"There is a barrel of filings the agent told me to sell for junk. He says a foundry can use it to melt up. It's been kicking around here for years. It weighs seven hundred pounds net; give me a cent a pound and you can have it," said he, walking over to one side of the dock, a sort of warehouse, and giving an old dingy barrel, lying on its bilge, a shove with his foot.

Mechanically I did the same, and wondered why filings were packed in that kind of a barrel. I leaned over to examine it more closely, and noted the word "Filings" marked on each head. Then I suddenly recalled that very day I had been asked to look inside of a storage place nearby, the same being suspected of contraband operations, and this would offer a genuine excuse. I examined the barrel more closely. It was very strong, and old, scarred, mysterious. I planned to send it to a certain suspected warehouse, and later would go there to draw a sample, thereby gaining admittance without revealing my real mission.

"Will you deliver it, Hiram?"

"Yes, deliver anywhere you want; will put it on the back of that cart right now," he replied, with a bantering smile.

"All right; here is your money; give me a receipted bill as the railroad's agent," I said, walking around the barrel.

Hiram grabbed the money from my hand, and after a parting injunction to the laborers went to his little office in the corner. I gave the heavy barrel a shove with my foot and rolled it over. I wet my finger, pressed it close to the chimes on a slight sifting that might be sand, but when I brought my finger away it had turned black at the point of contact and violet at the edges where the contact was less firm.

I was examining it critically when Hiram returned with the change and a receipted bill. After giving the dray directions where to take the barrel, and saying that he would be there soon to get the warehouse receipt, Hiram intimated that he was through for the day.

"Wait until I change my clothes and I will go with you," he said, hurrying to the little office.

"You see, this is a great system," he began to explain enthusiastically, when he returned in his street attire. "These tracks hold a train of refrigerator cars containing meat that comes in every morning on passenger trains. The packing-house agents get it out first thing in the morning while it is cool, for the early market. Then, you see, fruit steamers from Gulf and South American ports come alongside the wharf, load bananas, oranges, and so on, into the same cars. The refrigerator system keeps them cool in the summer and prevents freezing in the winter. Then they return north as special, fast, perishable. The packing-house centers at Memphis, Chicago, Kansas City, and Missouri and Mississippi River points get fresh fruit each twenty-four to thirty hours. The train has got to be out of here before three p. m., after which I'm through. Looks pretty nice when it's all cleaned up," he enthused, waving his arm about the wide dock about eight hundred feet long, paralleling the river, now swept and clean.

A refreshing breeze came from Algiers across the wonderful Mississippi, now literally jammed with ocean-going and river vessels.

"I imagine it is very interesting work, but will require great care and diligence," I suggested, as we walked out to Canal street and started uptown.

"Yes, but not so hard. The fruit is easy, but the meat comes in with three seals—a Government seal, the shippers' seal, and the railroad seal. Three of us open the cars. A Government inspector breaks the Government seal, I break our seal and the packing-house agent breaks their seal. Then the car is checked on the spot. You see, there is not much chance for error that way; besides, meat is all billed 'Shipper's weight and count,' but the freight agent—you know I am under the New Orleans freight agent—has cautioned me to be very careful. From the way he acts and talks I think my predecessor got into some kind of trouble, but no more trouble for your Uncle Dudley. What could be worse than sitting on a case of dynamite every day and scratching matches on it?"

We had now turned off Canal Street, and arrived at the warehouse where the barrel was sent. I was given a regular receipt, and we resumed our way uptown.

"Hiram, there's something else in that barrel—it's not iron filings; it's something that may be worth much more, and now I'm going to take you in as a partner on it. Give me three-fifty, half what I paid, and we will go fifty-fifty," I said, with little apparent concern.

Hiram stopped still and looked at me keenly, then gave me the money.

"Ben, if you were to tell me to jump in the river I would, knowing I would get out and get something for it—after that deal at Quarrytown. I started to say what Anna Bell said about you in connection——" He was abruptly interrupted by our meeting a man from the Department who wanted me at once, so I told Hiram I would see him later.