"Now there's Gus Robbins," continued George, as he pushed his hat on the back of his head and elevated his feet to the top of the rail. "From the little I heard of his history I gained the idea that he ran away from Foxboro' because he had to work in his father's store. He didn't like the business, and rather than follow it he was willing to trust himself to the tender mercies of Ned Ackerman, who went squarely back on him the very first chance he got. If Gus had had any sense at all, he ought to have known that he couldn't spend his whole life in visiting with Ned, that he would have to go to work again some time or another, and that there was nothing on the plains that a dry-goods clerk could do. I wonder where he went? If he could have heard the way in which Ned talked about him while we were on the way from Brownsville to Galveston, he would never have anything more to do with him."
We may anticipate events a little by saying that Gus never did have anything more to do with Ned, but he had a good deal to do with George—more, in fact, than he wanted to do. But George proved himself a faithful friend, and saved Gus from passing some of the best years of his life in prison.
The young pilot spent a few minutes more in thinking about Gus, wondering where he went when he left Ned so suddenly in Brownsville, and then his thoughts came back to Tony. It was the conversation he had had with the latter a short time before that set George to meditating in this way.
"And now here's another discontented boy," said he, to himself. "I know he has everything on earth that any reasonable fellow could ask for, with one single exception—his own way; and if he could get it, it would be the worst thing that ever happened to him. He wants just what I've got and don't care for—liberty to do as he pleases; and I want just what he's got, but which I never shall have—a kind father and mother. That's what makes me say that the things we want the most we can't get. If I could trade places with Tony, how long would it be before he would want to trade back again?"
While George was communing thus with himself, a sprucely-dressed, but rather dissipated-looking young man, mounted the steps that led to the boiler-deck, and stopped short when he discovered the cub-pilot sitting on the guard. He looked sharply at him for a moment, while an expression of anxiety settled on his face.
"What evil genius sent that fellow here?" said he, to himself. "He knows too much about me, and I don't believe it is safe to have him around. Look here, partner," said he, stepping up and laying his hand upon George's shoulder, "this boat will not start until Monday afternoon."
The words and the touch aroused George from his reverie, and raising his eyes to the face above him, he was surprised to see that it belonged to an old acquaintance—the same young man who had tried to induce him to surrender Mr. Black's pocket-book into his hands, instead of giving it to its lawful owner. He had never seen nor heard of him since leaving the General Quitman.
"I know it," replied George, "but how does it come that you know so much?"
He did not like the arrogant tone in which the young man addressed him, and he took this way to show it.
"Being chief clerk of this craft, I am supposed to know something about her and her contemplated movements," was the young man's reply.