Guy Harris, the Runaway

by Harry Castlemon

What could he do in that case? Saginaw, what little he was able to see of it by the aid of the light from the lanterns and torches on the pier, was not a cheerful-looking place. More than that, he did not know a soul there; and where could he go to pass the night and find a breakfast the next morning? The only friend he had that side of Norwall was the wheelsman, and sooner than lose him he would do something desperate.

Casting his eye over his shoulder occasionally, he saw that the steward was not only keeping watch of him, but that he was following him to see that he went ashore.

There were two others watching him also—Bob Walker, who was perched upon the rail, and Dick Flint, who stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the wheel-house.

“Bob is very anxious to see the last of me,” said Guy to himself, “and that, in my opinion, is another proof that he stole my money. But he isn’t as smart as he thinks he is, and neither is the steward. With Flint’s help I can fool them both. There’s no use in spoiling things by being in too great a hurry. The crew are getting ready to wood-up, so I shall have plenty of time.”

Guy made his way along the wood-pile, but when he reached the end of it he could not “round to and come up on the other side,” as the sailor had told him to do, so he kept straight ahead, and having reached the shore, stopped in the shadow of a warehouse. Neither Bob nor the steward could see him there, but as the pier and the steamer were brilliantly lighted up, he could observe their every movement.

He saw the steward, who had followed him to the end of the wood-pile, gaze steadily at the warehouse for a few minutes, and then turn about, go back to the propeller, and disappear in the gangway. Bob also left his perch after a little delay, and that was a signal to Guy to bestir himself.

He ran quickly down the bank to the pier, and throwing himself on his hands and knees behind the wood-pile, made his way toward the steamer, dragging his valise after him. In a few seconds more he was crouching close at the edge of the pier, waiting impatiently for a sign from Dick Flint, who was walking slowly up and down the deck.

Bob Walker, having seen Guy disappear behind the warehouse, drew a long breath of relief, and pulled a fresh cigar from his pocket.

“He has gone at last,” said he, “and I am safe. His presence for the last three days has been a perfect torture to me; but from this time forward I shall stand in no fear of discovery. There comes the steward, and I might as well have a glass of ale.”

Bob was very observing, and the Queen of the Lakes had not been many hours out of the port of Norwall before he began to learn something. He noticed that there were two or three gentlemen among the cabin passengers who made regular hourly visits to some place abaft the cabin, and that when they came back they were either smoking fragrant cigars or wiping their lips as if they had something good to eat or drink. Bob made it his business to follow them on one of their excursions, and found that they stopped in front of a little bar kept by the steward. After that Bob went there on his own responsibility, and became one of the best customers at the bar. As he always paid for what he got, and seemed to have plenty of money, the steward cultivated his acquaintance, and was ready to serve him with a cigar or a glass of ale at any hour of the day or night.