“You go ahead to them hosses,” he shouted; “and you, Blixey,” raising his voice still higher, “you come back here an’ pump out this boat!”
Blixey, who had seen Joe’s mishap, laughed hoarsely. His trembling knock-knees, as he walked toward the boat, seemed each moment likely to give way.
Joe was very far from being in a laughing mood. Never in his life had he been treated like this. Still, violently angry as he was, he feared to disobey this ruffian; he was even afraid to remonstrate with him.
He went forward meekly, took the gad that Blixey handed to him, and resumed the monotonous task of urging on the tired and miserable horses. He was already drenched to the skin, sore in mind and body, and sick at heart.
Once as he walked, he chanced to remember how he and his sister Jennie used to play on the haymow in the big barn on rainy afternoons. Somehow the memory brought tears to his eyes; but he brushed them away and trudged on.
Many loaded boats were met coming down, and many locks were passed. It was always a relief to the monotony to come to a lock, and take the horses around it, and wait while the boat was being locked through. Often there were little villages at the locks, too, and small stores fronting on the tow-path, and people looking out from behind the store windows.
The rain came down as steadily as ever. The tow-path grew muddier and more slippery with every passing moment, and the long hours wore on.
By and by it grew dark, but the boats in the canal kept moving. Lights shone from the cabin windows, and red lamps gleamed from the bows of the boats; but the tow-path, where Joe walked, was wrapped in the deepest gloom.