The crowd stood about impatiently. The operator still held the horse, and Joe stood near, looking confident and very earnest. Presently a steam-launch came puffing up the canal, gave two shrill whistles, and was quickly made fast to the dock.
A heavy, well-built man, with a closely cropped beard and a kindly face, stepped from the deck to the tow-path. He was followed by a man who carried a heavy valise, and by one or two other men.
They were the canal superintendent and the paymaster and their assistants.
“What’s the matter here, Matthew?” asked the superintendent, approaching the group.
“This boy is charged with stealing this horse,” replied the operator. “Here’s the message.”
The superintendent took the telegram and read it.
“Is this Bill Rosencamp’s horse?” he asked, turning to Joe.
“No, sir!” repeated Joe. “He isn’t. He’s my father’s horse.”
“But he acknowledges having taken him from Rosencamp,” the operator explained.
“Well,” said the superintendent, “Rosencamp is coming. When he gets here we shall find out whose horse it is.”