CHAPTER IX
ED’S ADVENTURE ON LAKE CHETECK
“Listen, boys,” said Mr. Allen, one night in November, as he looked up from a letter which a passing tote-teamster had left at the farm. “Here is a letter from my old friend Taylor, out in Minnesota, and he wants me to send him a ‘likely boy’ to work during the winter.”
Mr. Taylor was a miller whose old-fashioned grist mill, run by its large waterwheel, situated where the Des Moines river flows out of Lake Cheteck, its source, was flour-headquarters for the hardy pioneers of a large section of that country.
Sturdy Ed begged so earnestly to be permitted to take the place with their father’s old friend for the winter, that, after much hesitancy, and no little planning, the consent of Mr. and Mrs. Allen was given.
It was a serious journey for a boy at that time. The country, just emerging from the awful paralysis of the civil war, was but entering upon that era of railroad building which was to cover the west with a network of shining steel. As yet there were few railroads in that state which in a short time was to take front rank in grain raising and milling. Saint Paul was scarcely more than a big village, and the now magnificent metropolis at the falls of St. Anthony had not yet emerged from its swaddling clothes.
From the town of New Ulm Ed would have a long, cold ride by stage to the little mill out at the edge of civilization.
The few years’ experience he had had on the new farm in Wisconsin, had hardened his muscles, and, as he was not at all afraid of work, Ed soon found and fitted into his place at the mill. It was a little lonesome so far from home, and the work was somewhat monotonous, but the coming of the farmers with their loads of grain to be made into or exchanged for flour, gave opportunity for some sociability, and their stories of the great Indian uprisings, known to history as the New Ulm Massacre, were of thrilling interest.
As the winter came on it proved to be one of unusual severity, although there was little snow. The canal, or “race” by which the water of the lake was fed to the big millwheel, and from it to be tumbled foaming into the river at the foot of the rapids, usually maintained an even height, winter and summer, so, the supply of power being steady, it was possible for the millers to make preparation late in the evening, and leave the wheels to take care of the grist until early morning.
This winter, however, the ice in the river and race froze to the depth of three feet, and the power of the old mill was diminished to that extent. One night, not far from midnight, in the latter part of January, Ed found himself suddenly awake, sitting up in bed. Something had happened. What could be the matter? Oh, yes, he had been awakened by silence—not a noise, but the stopping of the noise of the mill had disturbed him. The hum of the burrs had ceased, the old wheel was still—the mill had shut down. He groped about and got his clothes, and hastened down-stairs into the wheel pit. Sure enough, there stood the old wheel at rest, for perhaps the first time in many years. In the runway there was a small stream of water falling, but nothing like enough to turn the wheel with the machinery of the mill geared on. Ed threw over the gear lever, and the released wheel slowly began to revolve again. Then he went up-stairs where he found Mr. Taylor, who had also been wakened as the accustomed hum of the stones ceased, and had come over from the house to investigate the cause.