From now on so many things happened, one right onto the heels of the other, that it’s a little confusing to remember them all and get them in the right places. It doesn’t seem as if I stopped to breathe for about a month. Only, the whole thing was over in a night and less than a day. But it was a night and a day a fellow couldn’t forget if he lived to be a million years old.

That first thing that happened was the noise. Mark and I had been paddling about three quarters of an hour when we heard it first.

“Bridge ahead,” I says. “Hear that rig goin’ across?”

Mark didn’t say anything, but I could see, by the way he tipped his head to one side, he was listening careful. We paddled on for ten minutes, and the noise came again. It was a sort of mix-up of rattle and rumble and roar. It sounded to me like a team crossing a bridge, but, after all, it didn’t sound quite like it.

“’Tain’t a b-b-bridge,” says Mark.

“What is it, then?”

“Dun’no’,” says he.

Pretty soon it went off again. Rattle, rattle, rumble, rumble, clatter, clatter, with a sort of squeal twisted in for good measure.

“S-some kind of a machine,” says Mark.

It kept coming every little while, sometimes as much as twenty minutes apart, and growing louder every time it came.

“S-sounds like a machine,” says Mark.

That’s what it was, but, when you come to think of it, it was a funny sort of a machine, and funny things were being done with it. About half past four we came slap onto it. It was a big scow more than fifty feet long and twenty or so wide. A flat, square house covered about two-thirds of it, and a whopping big derrick stuck up near the front end. There was a smoke-stack, so we knew there must be an engine. We’d have found that out pretty quick, anyhow, because it was hissing and fussing and spluttering away, and steam was spurting out of the side every little while.

A big cable stretched from the boom of the derrick up-stream, and the end of it was hitched to two of the biggest timbers I ever saw. They were hewn square, and each of them must have been sixty feet long. They were fastened side by side into a raft that would have floated an elephant. There were two men on it. I didn’t pay special attention to them, because I was so interested in the raft, but Mark did. I heard him let his breath go in the whoppingest sigh of relief a man ever heaved.

“We’ve d-d-done it,” says he.

“What?” says I.

“Won,” says he. “We’ve f-f-found your uncle. There’s Ole and Jerry.”

I almost tipped over the canoe, I turned so quick to look. Sure enough, there were Ole and Jerry working like big beavers. One was at one end of the raft, and the other was at the other end. They had big pike-poles and were pushing the contraption up-stream. It wasn’t any easy job, either. When we saw them first they were about a hundred feet away from the scow. They poled as far as they could without turning the bend, and then went ashore and fastened their raft to a tree with chains. When that was done Ole waved his hand to the engineer, and right there the queerest piece of traveling I ever saw was done. I don’t see how anybody ever thought it up. The engineer started his engine and began winding in the cable. Of course, because the far end of it was fast, that pulled the scow ahead. That wasn’t so outlandish, though. It was the steering! Would you believe it, but that engineer steered up-stream with the boom of the derrick. He’d swing that back and forth, all the time reeling in, and by moving the spot where the strain came first to one side and then to the other he steered as straight as you please. If the big scow started to veer over to the left the engineer would throw the boom way over to the right, and the pull of the cable would straighten her up. I never saw Mark look more tickled with anything in his life. He actually looked jealous. I knew what he was thinking—it was a big wish that he’d been the fellow to think up that scheme.

Neither Mark nor I said a word to Ole and Jerry till the scow had eaten up all its cable again. It reminded you of a spider. You’ve seen a spider going up, up to the ceiling by eating its own thread. But when the boat stopped we both yelled at once.

Ole and Jerry straightened up, rested their pike-poles on the bottom, and stared at us out of big, round, surprised blue eyes. They didn’t say a word. We paddled over.

“Where’s Uncle Hieronymous?” I asked, so excited I couldn’t sit still.

Ole looked at Jerry, and Jerry looked at Ole. Then both of them looked at us. Pretty soon Ole spoke.

“Py Jimminy!” says he to Jerry.

Jerry wagged his head and grinned at Mark. “She bane that fat boy,” he says.

“Yass,” says Ole. “She bane him.” Then they both threw back their heads and laughed so loud they must have frightened birds a quarter of a mile away.

“Where’s Uncle Hieronymous?” I asked again.

They didn’t pay a bit of attention to me, but kept on looking at us and at each other.

“They come in a leetle boat,” says Ole.

“Yass, in leetle boat.”

“Down the river,” says Ole.

“Sure. She bane come down dat river. Two poy. Py Jimminy!”

“Where’s Uncle Hieronymous?” I asked again, getting sort of mad. Nobody likes to ask questions and get no attention paid them. But Ole and Jerry seemed to think it was so funny we should come down the river in a little boat they didn’t have much time to give answers. After a while they did answer, though.

“Hieronymous?” says Ole. “Oh, yass. He bane work here.”

Jerry bobbed his head. “Sure. He work here.”

“Is he on that scow?” I suppose we might have saved a lot of time by going there to see, but we didn’t.

“Scow?” Jerry had to scratch his head over that. Ole scratched his head, too, and then they looked at each other and grinned as foolish as a couple of babies.

“Dey came for see Hieronymous,” says Ole; and then he had to laugh again like there was a funny joke.

“Ay tank so,” says Jerry. “Ay tank dey want for see him.”

“Yes,” says I, “we do. Is he there?”

“He work here,” says Ole. “He come with us here.”

“Yass,” says Jerry.

“But,” says Ole, and then he had to stop to laugh again, “he bane gone off now.”

“Yass,” says Jerry, “he bane gone off.”

I suppose that’s what they thought was so comical.

Well, sir, that took us right between wind and water, as the old privateering stories say. We thought the fight was over and we’d won, and here, when there didn’t seem to be another thing to do, Uncle Hieronymous had up and gone away. I crumpled up in the boat and felt like crying.

“Wh-where did he go?” Mark asked. It was the first time he had spoken.

“Go? He go dis mornin’,” says Ole.

“Nine-ten o’clock,” says Jerry.

“But where? Where d-d-did he go?”

“Oh-ho!” says Jerry. “Haw-haw! Listen, Ole. You hear dat?”

“Haw-haw!” says Ole. “I hear. She bane talk funny, eh?”

“Talk some more again,” says Jerry.

Mark was red as a beet, and I expected to hear him tear right into them and tell them what for, but he didn’t. I guess he knew they didn’t mean any harm and weren’t even trying to be rude. They were just interested.

“Do you know wh-wh-where he went?” Mark asked again.

“Ludington,” says Ole.

“Yass,” says Jerry, “Ludington.”

“When is he coming back?” I wanted to know.

“Oh, two-t’ree day,” says Ole.

“Maybe t’ree-four,” says Jerry.

“He go wid day boss,” says Ole.

“Yass,” says Jerry, “wid day boss.”

There wasn’t any use trying to get anything out of those Swedes, so we let go and paddled down to the scow to see if the engineer wasn’t more likely to be useful. He was a short man with spectacles and not much hair. It was a habit of his to keep his head on one side and look at you over the rims of his spectacles in the mournfulest way you can imagine. He was mournful all over; every line there was in his face sort of drooped, especially the corners of his mouth, which looked like there was danger of their slipping some day and going slam! off his jaw. He looked like an owl that had its feelings hurt.

He was leaning against the door of the engine-room when we came alongside, looking down at us as if he thought maybe he’d have to cry pretty soon.

“G-g-good afternoon,” says Mark.

The engineer walked to the side of the boat, working his lower jaw like he was chewing something, which he wasn’t at all. He stood a minnit without saying a word, then, in the dolefulest voice you ever heard, he says:

“If I was to git into that pesky boat it ’u’d be jest my luck to git tipped over.”

We never got to know him very well, but in the little time we were with him we found out that was just the way he looked at things. So far as we found out he never had anything very awful happen to him, but he didn’t have any faith in his luck, and he was certain-sure the next thing he did was going to turn out bad.

“We want to know about Uncle Hieronymous,” I says.

“Who be you?” he asked. “I don’t calc’late to spread news about anybody until I find out who I’m tellin’. You might mean some harm to Hieronymous.”

“He’s my uncle,” I says. “We boys are staying at his house for the summer.”

He drew down his mouth till it was near a foot long. “Well,” says he, “why don’t you stay there, then, instid of gallivantin’ around the country in a boat that hain’t much short of bein’ murderous?”

“Because,” says Mark, “we g-g-got to see him special and important.”

“Anythin’ unfort’nate happened him?” asked the engineer, leaning over the edge of the scow. It looked like misfortunes were a regular specialty of his.

“No,” says Mark, “but somethin’s goin’ to if we don’t find him p-p-pretty quick.”

“You don’t tell,” says the engineer, and he come close to smiling.

“Ole says he’s gone to Ludington,” I says.

“That’s where he’s gone, and I hope nothin’ unfort’nate comes of it. I didn’t noways like the look of that hoss the boss drove.”

“Well,” says Mark, “we g-g-got to git to Ludington fast. What’s the quickest way?”

“There hain’t none,” says the engineer. “It’ll take you a day by river, pervidin’ you don’t git tipped over and drownded. It’s two miles to Scottville and eight from there to Ludington, by land, and you hain’t got no hoss. Them’s the two ways, and neither of ’em the quickest.”

“Isn’t there a train from Scottville to Ludington?”

“Yes,” says he, “but I wouldn’t risk my neck on it. Not never. I wouldn’t git onto that train of cars no more’n I’d git into one of these here autymobiles.”

“Can we come aboard?” I says, after a minnit. “It’s pretty cramped down here, and I’d like to sit on somethin’ comfortable a few minnits.”

“Yes,” says Mark, “and we wouldn’t git m-m-mad at you if you offered us somethin’ to eat.”

“Come ahead,” says the engineer, “but be careful. I can’t swim, so don’t go dependin’ on me to haul you out if you fall in.”

We scrambled aboard and sat down in a couple of rickety kitchen chairs. The engineer watched us awhile, chewing away at nothing, and then, wrinkling up his face, says:

“What might your names be? I don’t rec’lect hearin’ ’em.”

“My name’s M-M-Mark Tidd, and his is Binney Jenks.”

“Huh! Mark Tidd! That hain’t no kind of a name. It’s jest a sort of a snort. There hain’t enough of it.”

“Well,” says I, “his whole name is Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd. I calc’late that’s plenty long.”

“Sam Hill!” says the engineer. “Sam Hill! Who ever heard the like! Honest, is that his name?”

“Honest Injun.”

“It ’u’d make me nervous. It’s the kind of a name you see in the papers. Somehow it brings to mind pieces in the newspapers about train-wrecks or trouble or somethin’. No, sir, I wouldn’t think it was safe to have a name like that.”

“What kind of a name do you l-l-like?” Mark asked.

“There’s my own. It hain’t a lucky name, so to speak, but it hain’t never been no detriment. My name,” says he, “is Wednesday Hogtoter.”

I most tumbled off my chair. “What?” I says, not believing my ears.

“Wednesday Hogtoter,” he repeated. “Hogtoter, bein’ my father’s name, become mine natural-like. Wednesday was the day my father up and took a prize to the state fair for raisin’ the biggest potaters in the state. He deemed that day consid’able of a day, so he give it to me for a name.”

Mark Tidd was sniffing. I knew what that meant—something to eat. When I came to sniff a little myself I noticed coffee. My, but it smelled good! There was other things in the air, like bacon, and I thought I could pick out the odor of hot biscuits.

Mark looked at his watch.

“What time is it?” I asked.

He didn’t answer me, but asked a question of Mr. Hogtoter. “What t-t-time d’you eat?” he says.

“Half past five,” says Mr. Hogtoter.

Mark sighed. “Twenty minutes yet,” he says, and sank back, looking gloomier than all-git-out.

“Can we look at the engine?” I asked Mr. Hogtoter.

He allowed we could, so we went in the engine-room, but there wasn’t much to see. We came out again in a minnit to watch Mr. Hogtoter steer the scow up-stream again with the boom.

At last the cook came out and hollered, “Grub-pile!” which meant it was suppertime. Ole and Jerry came on the run, and Mark and I didn’t wait for a written invitation. It’s lucky they had lots to eat on board, or somebody would have come out at the little end of the horn. I ate and ate, and Mark ate and ate and ate. He was still going it when the rest were through.

The cook shook his head. “Wouldn’t board you permanent, young feller, for twice my wages,” says he. “Is this the first time you’ve et this year?”

Mark just grinned. He was full now, and that made him feel good. He never cared much, anyhow, when folks made fun of his appetite.

We settled back in our chairs; and I was just getting ready to ask more about the way to Ludington when somebody hollered outside. I knew that voice in a minnit. It was Jiggins.