CHAPTER XIX

Tad was roused, as he had been on that eventful morning in the Ohio, nearly four weeks earlier, by Allen’s voice raised in song:

“Hard upon the beach oar-- She moves too slow! All the way to New Orleans, Lo-o-ong time ago-o!”

It was barely daylight; yet the breakfast fire was snapping merrily, and Abe was busy preparing for a start. As the boy washed himself, he saw signs of similar activity on board the other broadhorns, and by the time they were finishing the morning meal, one or two of the craft had already taken their departure.

Abe sent a loud challenge after them as he cast loose the mooring-line, and in another thirty seconds he was boiling along in their wake. It was a brisk morning, with a little breeze from down river ruffling the water. Everybody’s spirits were high, and for the next half hour all the rowers put the best they had into the race. By the end of that time Abe’s brawny strokes had carried the _Katy Roby_ so far into the lead that there was no longer any hope of catching her, and the other boats settled down to their normal gait.

Not so Abe. He kept a wrinkle of foam under the flatboat’s square bow for two hours without a let-up. When at last he snatched a moment’s rest, he explained his haste to Tad.

“You’ve eaten your last meal o’ hog meat an’ johnny-cake fer a spell, son,” said he. “I aim to git you down thar in time fer you to have a civilized dinner with your Paw.”

In spite of the boy’s remonstrances, his big friend kept up the pace. And sure enough, by a little after ten o’clock they came in sight of the upper outposts of the city.

Along the left bank the vegetable gardens gave way to scattered hovels, and they in turn to houses--streets of them--closely built, all sheltered behind the broad rampart of the levee. Then came the steamboat landings, and all three of the _Katy Roby’s_ crew stared in open-mouthed wonder at the ranks of tall stacks and the glistening white and brasswork of more than thirty steamers moored there, noses in to the bank.

Even along the water fronts of New York and Philadelphia, Tad had never seen such swarming activity as he witnessed here. Hundreds of blacks toiled in the sun, rolling molasses barrels and cotton bales. Directing them were sharp-faced Yankee merchants and brawny steamboat mates, with an occasional soft-spoken Creole or gesticulating Spaniard.

Anchored in the curving channel of the river were sailing-ships, big and little, flying the flags of all the world. There were heavy British merchantmen, Dutch and Danish brigs, fast-sailing, tall-masted ships from Boston and New York and Baltimore, French barques, trim West Indian schooners, and slovenly little lateen-rigged boats from the bays and inlets along the Gulf.

And then Tad saw the flatboat fleet. For the better part of a mile they lay along the levee, four, six--sometimes ten deep--a solid mass of keel-boats, broadhorns, and scows. It was impossible to count them, but there must have been not less than four or five hundred in sight. And the noise that rose from them was terrific, as newcomers hailed each other and fought for places.

“Whew!” said Abe in some dismay. “Thicker’n ants at a camp-meetin’ picnic, ain’t they? How in time are we goin’ to git nigh this town?”

At that moment, almost opposite the _Katy Roby’s_ bow, a keel-boat was working its way out of the tangle of craft, and Abe backed water and stood by, ready to enter the space she was about to leave. By skillful jockeying he worked the nose of the flatboat into the hole and succeeded in getting in until only one broadhorn separated them from the shore.

The stout Kentuckian who owned her looked the newcomers over without any signs of welcome.

“Hyah you-all come a-crowdin’ in,” he grumbled, “an’ next I s’pose you’ll want to fasten yo’ worm-eaten tub on to mine. Is that so?”

“I’m askin’ you,” grinned Abe. “Will you do us that favor?”

The Kentucky man eyed the big Hoosier from his worn moccasins to his rugged, fighting face still topped by the blood-stained bandage.

“I reckon so,” said he, and grinned in his turn. “Whar’bouts you from?”

While Abe was telling him he passed the _Katy Roby’s_ line across the deck of the other boat and took a hitch around one of the mooring-posts on shore.

“I was born in your state, myself,” Abe told the Kentuckian. “My Paw moved us across the river when I was seven.”

“Too bad--too bad!” commiserated the stocky flatboatman. “Still, it’s somethin’ to have come from Kentucky, even if you had the misfortune not to stay thar.”

He offered Abe a drink from his jug of red-eye, and when it was politely declined he seemed surprised, but not offended. From that time on he regarded the Hoosier crew as friends and allies.

“Now then, Tad,” said Abe when all was snug, “we’ll go straight ashore an’ see if we kin locate your Pappy’s office. Allen’ll take keer of the cargo fer a spell, won’t ye, Allen?”

The young man in question appeared sheepishly from under the tarpaulin, with his razor and brush in his hand. “Sure,” he answered. “I jes’ thought I’d shave me up a little, first off, so when I go ashore I kin talk to the commission merchants ’thout lookin’ too much like a backwoods jay.”

Abe and Tad scrambled across the Kentucky broadhorn and stepped out on the wide, sun-baked levee top. Behind them the water, high with the April freshets, was a good ten feet above the level of the streets to which they now descended. It gave Tad a queer feeling of insecurity to see the twin stacks of the steamers standing high above the church steeples. But that was only a momentary fancy. His attention was centered on his present errand, and he whistled merrily as he hurried along beside Abe.

The towering young Hoosier’s strides ate up distance surprisingly, and they were soon well into the business section of the city. Tad asked a Creole shopkeeper, in good French, where they might find the Rue St. Louis, and was told, in funny but understandable English, that it was the next street but one. Going forward as directed, they quickly found not only the street but the number they wanted. It was a large, severe-looking building of three stories, with none of the pretty tracery of iron balconies that adorned so many of the houses.

The two lads entered the public hallway and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Tad felt a joyous pounding under his ribs at the sight of the name JEREMIAH HOPKINS lettered on the door. He opened it with trembling fingers and entered, Abe following at his heels.

To his disappointment, his father was nowhere in sight. At the rear of the room a big desk and chair stood--vacant. Two or three clerks sat on tall stools, scribbling away at their ledgers. A dapper young secretary with a small mustache and a supercilious air came forward to the rail.

“I’m Thaddeus Hopkins,” said Tad. “Isn’t my father here?”

The man seemed not at all impressed. He stroked his chin with one hand and smiled cynically.

“So you’re the boy himself, eh?” said he. “Let’s see, you’re the third--no, the fourth--that’s been here, and you aren’t the likeliest-looking one of the lot, at that. You’ve come for the reward, I suppose?”

“No,” Tad replied, somewhat nettled by the fellow’s attitude. “I haven’t come for any reward. I’ve come to see my father. Where is he?”

The secretary scowled. “Now see here,” said he, “don’t give me any more of your impudence, or I’ll have you arrested. Mr. Hopkins went up river some days ago--to follow up an important clue,” he added weightily, as if to settle the matter.

Abe looked at Tad and grinned, and seeing him, the young man with the mustache flew into a rage. “Get out of here!” he cried. “Get out at once, before I call the police. And if I catch you in here again I’ll use a cane on you!”

Tad’s sense of humor got the better of his wrath, at that. He stopped short of the hot answer he had started to make, and laughed, with Abe, at the sheer ridiculousness of the affair. They went slowly to the door. On the threshold Tad turned and looked once more at the secretary, who was now fairly purple with indignation.

“All right,” said the boy, trying to hold back his laughter, “you’d better keep that cane handy, because we’ll be back.” And he closed the door quietly in the face of the sputtering clerk.

When they reached the street once more, Abe looked at Tad with a droll expression and shook his head.

“I can’t rightly blame the feller,” he chuckled. “I never thought how we were goin’ to look, an’ you wouldn’t be taken fer any swell Easterner, ye know.”

Tad glanced down at his costume. It was the first time he had even thought about his appearance for weeks. And as he realized how he must have looked to the dapperly attired young underling in his father’s office, he burst into another shout of merriment.

His shirt was in rags, with one sleeve torn out entirely at the shoulder. The butternut breeches of Abe’s purchase had stood up better under hard service, but even they were tattered in several places, and very dirty. His bare feet and legs still showed the marks of the many scrapes and scratches he had got in his adventure with the outlaws. And he knew that his skin, tanned to the color of an Indian’s, and his uncombed thatch of hair, must give him anything but a prepossessing appearance.

“I reckon what ye really need,” said Abe, “is a bran’ new suit o’ store clothes, an’ a hair-cut. Then maybe some stockin’s an’ shoes an’ a necktie might help. ’Bout twelve dollars an’ a half in gov’ment notes, an’ you’d be the real Tad Hopkins ag’in, ’stead o’ jest a plain, ornery little river-rat. The only question now is, whar are we a-goin’ to git that much cash? Speakin’ fer myself, jest at the present moment I haven’t got even one lonesome cent. Looks like I’d have to break my promise an’ take ye back to eat aboard the boat ag’in.”

They wandered through the hot streets, picturesque but smelly, and came at length to the levee market, where long rows of booths under brightly striped canopies displayed eatables of every sort. There were rice and green corn, ginger, all kinds of berries, oranges and bananas, live fowls tied in threes and hanging by their legs, quail and other game, fish and shrimps from the Gulf, and craw-fish, sold by wrinkled old Choctaw Indian women.

At some of the stalls mulattoes held up chocolate in big steaming cups, and from others came the delicious odor of hot rice and gumbo.

“Hm,” said Abe, “’twon’t do to hang ’round here very long. I’m commencin’ to git mighty hungry.”

They threaded their way through the crowds of Creole housewives with their black servants carrying market baskets, and emerged in front of a long warehouse opening on the levee near the steamboat landing.

Before this warehouse stood a two-horse dray, partly loaded with barrels and boxes, and around it were three negroes apparently waiting for something. A well-dressed, elderly white man fumed up and down meanwhile, and expressed his opinion of the colored race in no uncertain terms. As Tad and Abe drew near, he addressed his remarks to them.

“Look at this,” he snorted. “For fifteen minutes these good-for-nothing niggers of mine have been standing around waiting for some one to fetch a plank so that they can roll a barrel of indigo on to this wagon. The _Maid of Camberwell_ sails on the next tide, and we have to haul the goods a mile to where her lighter is moored. If these blankety-blank sons of Ham were worth their salt, they could hoist the barrel up by hand, and I’d have some chance of making this ship. The next cargo for Liverpool may not go out for a month.”

Abe strolled up to the huge blue-stained barrel and tipped it a little with his hand.

“How much is it worth to you to git it loaded?” he asked the owner.

“How much! I’d give a dollar to have that indigo on the dray,” he replied.

“All right,” said Abe, “that’s a bargain.”

He rolled the barrel up to the rear of the wagon, spat on his hands, placed his feet carefully and put his arms, back, and knees into a single mighty heave. With a resounding thump, five hundred pounds of indigo landed on the tailboard and were rolled forward to stand beside the rest of the load.

Abe dusted off his hands and jumped lightly to the ground. He was not even breathing hard.

The merchant was still standing in the same spot, open-mouthed with astonishment.

“Great heavens, man!” he stammered, when he could find words. “Why, it’s amazing, sir--astounding! I can’t believe my eyes! Here--” and he thrust a hand into his pocket--“I’ll be better than my word. Here’s a two-dollar note.”

Abe hesitated. “I ’greed to do it fer one,” he said. “Still, if you mean it, I’ll accept your offer. The boy, here, an’ I--we kin sure use it.” He took the bill, thanked the merchant, and they went on.

“Tad,” grinned the long-shanked Hoosier, as he gave the boy’s arm a squeeze, “by the sun an’ by my in’ard feelin’s it ’pears to be past noon. I vote we head straight fer one o’ those rice an’ gumbo places.”

They retraced their steps and were soon served with bowls of the savory stuff, ladled out of a huge copper pot by a motherly-looking quadroon woman.

Tad smacked his lips. “Mm, tastes good, doesn’t it?” he said. “How much did it cost?”

“Four cents apiece,” Abe answered. “We could live ashore quite a spell on our two dollars, couldn’t we? Golly! Two dollars! That’s the easiest money I ever made. Why, think--it’s the same as a whole week’s pay navigatin’ the _Katy Roby_!”

They bought half a dozen oranges as a special treat--Abe had never eaten one in his life--and went back to the place where their flatboat was tied up.

Allen looked up in surprise from the pans he was washing. “You back, Tad?” he exclaimed. “I figgered nex’ time I saw you, it would be in one o’ them shiny two-hoss carriages with a brass-buttoned nigger up in front.”

They related the happenings of the morning, and Allen roared with laughter. “Wal,” said he, “we’re bound to stay here fer a couple more days anyhow. None of the commission men kin handle the cargo short o’ that time. An’ you’re welcome to sleep on board here as long as you’ve a mind to.”

“Thanks,” said Tad, “I guess I’ll have to do that, until Dad comes back from up river.”

While he was ashore Allen had left the boat under the guardianship of their neighbor, the Kentucky man. “I don’t see him anywheres around now,” said he, “but you folks don’t need to stay here. I’ll watch the stuff this afternoon, an’ then you kin take charge after supper. Reckon I’d rather go ashore in the evenin’, when it’s cooler, anyway.”

Abe and Tad laughed at him, but they were glad to fall in with his idea, for both of them wanted to see the town. They made such repairs as they could to their clothes, and Abe hauled out from some hiding-place a treasured old coonskin cap.

“This’ll keep the sun off my head,” he explained, “an’ I reckon in the city it looks better’n no hat at all.”

Tad tried to reason with him, but it was to no purpose. Abe topped off his six feet four of homespun shirt, buckskin breeches, and moccasins with the moth-eaten fur cap, and they set forth.