It is at Rondout that the Delaware and Hudson Canal, reaching across from the anthracite-coal regions of Pennsylvania, touches tide-water on the Hudson. It is here that the bulky canal-boats, having discharged their cargoes of coal, turn their bows again to the westward. From the low-lying lands at the river’s edge the mouth of Rondout Creek curves back into the hills, forming for miles a safe, broad harbor.

On the northerly shore of the creek is the wharf. On the left side of this wharf long lines of canal-boats are tied to the wharf posts, and fastened one to another. On the right, canal stores, blacksmith’s shops, and stables extend as far as the eye can reach.

In the early morning, before the activities of the day have begun, this wharf is a deserted and forbidding place, and on one such early morning in September, with chill air and cloudy skies, and not even a rose tint in the dull east, there was no one to be seen throughout the whole length of the wharf save one slowly moving boy.

This boy was so dull and miserable in appearance as to be hardly noticeable against the general dulness around him. His clothing was ragged and dusty, his shoes were out at both heel and toe. The battered hat, pulled well down over his eyes, shaded a haggard and a hungry face. His mother herself would scarcely have recognized this scarecrow as Joe Gaston.

What his hardships and sufferings had been since that June morning when he angrily left his home, his appearance told more eloquently than words can describe them. Many and many a day he had longed for the good and wholesome food he knew was on his father’s table. Many and many a night, as he lay under some unwelcoming roof, or still oftener with the open sky above him, he had dreamed of that gentle mother who used always to fold the soft covering over him, and give him the good-night kiss.

But a few days before our meeting with him here on the canal Joe had met, on the public road, a roving wood-sawyer who recognized him. They walked together a long way.

The man, who had sawed wood for Joe’s father several times, had been at the homestead since Joe’s departure. He seemed surprised not to find the horse with Joe, and he finally asked the boy what he had done with him.

He was still more surprised when he learned that Joe had not had Old Charlie, and knew nothing about the theft. But poor Joe! It touched him to the quick to learn, as he did, that at home he was regarded as a horse-thief.

It was this that he brooded over now, day and night. To think that they should accuse him of stealing Old Charlie!

Joe had, in his wanderings, followed a sort of circle, which had now brought him within a comparatively short distance of home; but if, before this, he had thought of returning there, the thought was now driven from his mind. He felt that he could not go back to face this charge against him, for who would believe him? It was time to turn his face to the westward.

Besides, he had said that he would not return until he was twenty-one years old. His pride had not yet been enough chastened by misery to cause him to abandon his foolish boast.

So here he was, on the wharf at Rondout this raw September morning, seeking not so much independence and fortune as bread and shelter.

Joe walked slowly along close to the buildings, for the wind that swept down the creek was disagreeably cold. An occasional raindrop struck his face. He was very thinly clad, too, and he could not help shivering now and then as he pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and turned his back for a moment to the wind.

He stopped to look at a few loaves of bread and a string of sausages that were displayed in the window of a cheap store. He wondered whether it would be wiser to spend his last few pennies for his breakfast, or save them for his dinner.

He had about decided to buy a piece of bread, and was waiting for the store to be opened for the day, when some one accosted him from behind: “Say, you boy!”

Joe turned and looked at the speaker. He was a rather stout, low-browed man, with a very red nose and a shaven face, upon which a rough stubble of beard had begun to grow.

His pantaloons were supported from below by the tops of his rubber boots, and suspended from above by a single brace, which ran diagonally across the breast of his red flannel shirt.

“Do you want a job, young fellow?” continued the man.

“What kind of a job?” asked Joe.

“Drivin’.”

“Drivin’ what?”

“Hosses on the canal. My boy got sick las’ night, an’ I’ve got to git another one. Do ye know anything about hosses?”

“Yes,” replied Joe. “I’ve driven ’em a good deal, and always taken care of ’em.”

“Well, my boat’s unloaded, an’ I’m ready to pull right out. Wha’ do ye say? Go?”

“What wages do you pay?” asked the boy, hesitatingly.

“Well, you’re big an’ smart-lookin’ an’ know how to handle hosses, an’ I’ll give you extra big pay.”

Joe’s spirits rose. True, the man looked forbidding, and undesirable as a master; but if he paid good wages, the rest might be endured.

“Well, what will you pay?” persisted the boy.

“I’ll give ye four dollars for the round trip, an’ board an’ lodge ye.”

Joe’s spirits fell.

“How long does the trip take?” he asked.

“Two weeks.”

“An’ when do I get my money?”

“Half at Honesdale, an’ half when you git back here.”

“Well, I don’t know; I—”

“Make up your mind quick. If you don’t want the job, I’ll be lookin’ for another boy.”

Joe thought of his penniless condition. It might not be long, indeed, before he would be starving. Here was a chance to obtain at least food and shelter, and probably enough to buy an overcoat.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll go.”

“All right. Have you had any breakfast?”

“No.”

“Come along with me, an’ I’ll give you some.”

Joe’s spirits rose again at the thought of breakfast. He followed the man down the dock a short distance, then from the dock to a canal-boat lying close by, and from this boat to another, and still another.

When the last boat was reached, they went down into the cabin, where a colored man was cooking food.

A leaf projecting from the wall was already propped to a horizontal position, and on it were a few plates, knives and forks, a dish of warmed-up potatoes, a slice or two of fried ham, and some bread and butter.

The negro was preparing coffee also. The odor of it all was very pleasant to Joe as he climbed down the steep cabin stairs, and he did not wait long after being told to help himself.

“I’ve hired this boy for the trip,” the man explained to his cook. “What’s your name, young feller, anyhow?” he continued, turning to the boy.

“Joe.”

“What else?”

“That’s all,—for the present, anyway.”

“Oh, I see! Run away, did ye? Well, I won’t be so partic’ler. My name’s Rosencamp,—Bill Rosencamp. Cap’n Bill, for short. An’ this gentleman’s name,” turning to the negro, “is Blixey. He’s like you; he’s only got one name; but he can’t help it,—he never had no other.”

Blixey laughed immoderately at this, and poured the coffee with an unsteady hand. He seemed to be so weak and wavering in all his movements, his eyes were so bloodshot, and his utterance so thick, that Joe thought he must have been drinking; but he had not been,—at any rate, not that morning.

Joe enjoyed his breakfast greatly. Though it was a coarse meal, it was the best he had eaten for many days, and when he was done with it he was ready to go to work, and said so.

Accordingly he was sent to scrub the deck, while Blixey washed the dishes, and the captain looked after the tow. A bustling little tug-boat had already made fast to a fleet of empty canal-boats, Rosencamp’s among the number, and was hauling them up the stream.

Rondout was now awake. The island in the bay was a scene of great activity. The clang of heavy machinery and the rasping noise of coal sliding on iron surfaces filled the air. Boats were moving in all directions. There were a hundred people on the wharf, and twice a hundred, many of them women and little children on the decks of the moored canal-boats.

Up the stream the scene became picturesque. On each side were precipitous hills, wooded to the river’s edge, their green heights reflected in the still water at their feet. There were cement mines to be seen, and old white-faced mansions; and half-way up the boat passed under a lofty iron bridge across which dashed a railway train.

Notwithstanding the dulness of the sky and the occasional falling of raindrops, Joe enjoyed the ride very much. At Eddyville the first lock, a tide-lock, bars the way, and here the horses and mules are kept.

“Do you see that stable over there?” said the captain to Joe. “My hosses is there. You go an’ git ’em. Ask for Cap’n Bill’s hosses.”

Joe did as he was told. After some good-natured chaffing on the part of the stable-keeper, the raw-boned worn-out horses were turned over to him, and the boy appeared on the tow-path leading them.

Joe was told that these animals were named Jack and Jill. Jack had fallen down the bank from the tow-path to the river one day, and Jill had come tumbling after. Whatever their names had been before, this incident had definitely renamed them.

The horses were fastened to the tow-line, and the tow-line was attached to the timber-head of the boat. Joe was duly installed as driver.

His duties were not at all light. He had to walk all the way, and to keep the horses going at a good pace, which in itself was no easy task. He must keep on the inside of the tow-path, so that his boat should pass over the tow-lines of the loaded boats they met, and must pull up sharply when a lock was reached.

Sometimes, in the vicinity of locks, great confusion arose from the crowding of boats and the intertangling of tow-lines. Then Joe became practically helpless. But Captain Bill, after much pushing and angry shouting, always managed to straighten out matters and get the boat under way again.

At Rosendale there was a long delay. Something had gone wrong with the gates at the lock.

Joe was not sorry for this, for it was now late in the forenoon, and he was very tired from his long tramp.

Captain Bill had gone off up the wharf to a canal store, Blixey was busy in the cabin, and the horses were drowsily munching oats from baskets tied under their noses.

A drizzling rain was falling, and Joe took shelter under a shed a little back from the tow-path while he waited.

He had not been long there when a big, uncouth-looking boy came shambling in and sat down on a box near by.

“Hello!” said the boy.

“Hello!” responded Joe.

“Drivin’ for Bill Rosey?”

“Yes.”

“Better look out for ’im.”

“Why?”

“He’s bad.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, an’ ugly.”

“Is he?”

“Yes, an’ works you to death. He’s used up three boys a’ready; one went home yisterday all stove to pieces. I wouldn’t work for ’im; I quit.”

Joe was naturally very much startled, but he soon found breath to ask,—

“Did you work for him once?”

“Did I? Well, I should say so.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Not much; licked me, an’ kicked me, an’ robbed me,—that’s all. Say, what’s he goin’ to pay you?”

“Four dollars for the round trip.”

“The thief!”

“Why, isn’t that enough?”

“Enough! W’y, five dollars was my wages for the roun’ trip, an’ another feller I knew was to have six; only we didn’t neither of us git no money. Oh, he’s a bad man, he is; you better look out fer ’im.”

The boy rose awkwardly, as if to go.

“Well,” said Joe, anxiously, “I’ve hired out to him now, you know. What would you do about it if you was in my place?”

The big boy sat down again more awkwardly, if possible, than he had risen.

“I’ll tell ye jest what I would do,” he began earnestly.

But he never told what it was, and Joe never had the benefit of his advice; for at that moment the bony figure of Captain Bill appeared at the corner of the shed.

The jaw of the large boy dropped suddenly, and jumping up from the box he made his escape to the tow-path.

“You’d better git!” shouted the man angrily after him. “What’d he say to ye?” he demanded, turning to Joe.

“He said,” stammered Joe, “he said that he used to work for you.”

“Did ’e say I used to lick ’im an’ kick ’im, an’ try to knock some sense into ’im?”

“Why, yes; something like that.”

“Well, I did, an’ I’ll do the same to you ef ye don’t ’ten’ closer to business. Come! Git out there to them horses! See w’ere they’re a-goin’! Jest look at that tow-line!”

The man’s look and manner were so fierce that Joe dared not even reply.

He hurried out to his disagreeable task with a sinking heart, and began to draw up the tow-line, which had slipped under the boat, and which, after much scolding on Captain Bill’s part, was straightened out.

The boat was “locked through” at last, and not long after Blixey called up that dinner was ready. The captain ate first, while Blixey minded the tiller. Then Blixey ate, and afterward relieved Joe on the tow-path.

There was not much left when the boy reached the table,—not nearly enough to satisfy his hunger. But Captain Bill stood at the rudder-post looking fiercely down the hatchway at him, and when he had eaten what was on the table he dared not ask for more.

“Wash them dishes!” ordered the captain.

Joe washed the dishes, put them away on the shelves, and then went up on deck. The light rain of the morning had settled into a steady downpour, and the boat was drenched.

“Here!” said Captain Bill, “you come here. Now take a-holt o’ this tiller, an’ push it as I tell ye to.”

Joe grasped the tiller, and the man went back and began to pump water from the hold.

“Pull it to ye!” shouted the captain, as the boy, wondering how it worked, allowed the tiller to swing slowly from him.

“Pull it to ye, I say! Can’t ye see where the boat’s a-goin’?”

Joe pulled; but it was no easy matter to check the impetus of the rudder in the opposite direction, and the boat still swung stern away.

“Pull!” shouted the man. “Don’t stand there like a stick o’ wood. Pull!”

The boy was pulling with all his might, but as yet without avail.

Captain Bill dropped the pump-rod and sprang to the tiller. Seizing it on the opposite side from where Joe stood, he thrust it violently outward, pushing Joe with it, backing him across the deck, backing him relentlessly till the edge of the boat was reached.

The boy to save himself from the water was obliged to turn and leap toward shore.

Fortunately the boat was near the bank, and Joe was able to scramble up the tow-path, more frightened than either hurt or wet.

Captain Bill shook his fist at him angrily.

“You go ahead to them hosses,” he shouted; “and you, Blixey,” raising his voice still higher, “you come back here an’ pump out this boat!”

Blixey, who had seen Joe’s mishap, laughed hoarsely. His trembling knock-knees, as he walked toward the boat, seemed each moment likely to give way.

Joe was very far from being in a laughing mood. Never in his life had he been treated like this. Still, violently angry as he was, he feared to disobey this ruffian; he was even afraid to remonstrate with him.

He went forward meekly, took the gad that Blixey handed to him, and resumed the monotonous task of urging on the tired and miserable horses. He was already drenched to the skin, sore in mind and body, and sick at heart.

Once as he walked, he chanced to remember how he and his sister Jennie used to play on the haymow in the big barn on rainy afternoons. Somehow the memory brought tears to his eyes; but he brushed them away and trudged on.

Many loaded boats were met coming down, and many locks were passed. It was always a relief to the monotony to come to a lock, and take the horses around it, and wait while the boat was being locked through. Often there were little villages at the locks, too, and small stores fronting on the tow-path, and people looking out from behind the store windows.

The rain came down as steadily as ever. The tow-path grew muddier and more slippery with every passing moment, and the long hours wore on.

By and by it grew dark, but the boats in the canal kept moving. Lights shone from the cabin windows, and red lamps gleamed from the bows of the boats; but the tow-path, where Joe walked, was wrapped in the deepest gloom.