Buddy stood in the skiff which was drawn up on the bank. Peter, with a rock and his stove-poker, was undoing the frozen knot that held his shanty-boat to the Rock Island Railway System, and by means of that to the State of Iowa. He was preparing to take the shanty-boat down the river to George Rapp's place. His provisions were aboard, the rag of a sail lay ready to raise should the wind serve—but it promised not to—and the long sweep that had reposed on the roof of the boat was on its pin at the bow, if a boat, both ends of which were identical, could be said to have a bow.
“I like to steer boats,” said Buddy out of his boyish optimism.
“I bet you do,” said Peter, “and a mighty good steerer you'll make. I don't know how Uncle Peter could get down river if he didn't have somebody to steer for him. Now, you let me push that skiff into the water, and we'll row around the boat, and before you know it you'll be steering like a regular little sailor.”
He threw the mooring rope on to the stern deck of the shanty-boat, pushed the skiff into the water and poled to the other end of the boat where the long sweep was held with its blade suspended in the air, the handle caught under a cleat on the deck. Peter lifted Buddy to the deck, made the skiff's painter fast, and climbed to the deck after the boy.
“Now, Buddy, we'll be off in a minute and a half,” he said, “just as soon as I fix you the way they fix sailors when they steer a ship in a big storm.”
He drew a ball of seine twine from his pocket, knotted one end about Buddy's waist, cut off a generous length, and tied the other end to the cleat.
“Don't!” said Buddy imperatively. “I don't want to be tied, Uncle Peter.”
“Oh, yes, you do!” said Peter. “Why, a sailor-man couldn't think of steering a great boat like this unless he was tied to it.”
“No!” shouted Buddy, and Peter stood, holding his end of the cord, studying the boy.
“Now, Buddy-boy,” he said appealingly. “Don't holler like that. Ain't I told you we must keep right quiet, because your ma is asleep in there.”