CHAPTER XXI

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.