This person—whose name I had ascertained to be Bill Black—was assisted by a second individual, a white man like himself, who was a regular "Mississippi boatman."
The other "builders" were all black, the carpenters and common hands of the plantation, some of whom were afterward to act as "hands," in the navigation of the craft.
I had taken considerable interest in this ark's construction, though the Tennessee Noah, Mr. Bill Black, seemed anything but inclined to initiate me into the mysteries of his ship-yard. Several times that I had visited it alone, he had treated me with scant civility; and I had set him down as a morose brute. His acolyte, Stinger, was equally uncivil.
The demeanor of these men would have given me a very low opinion of what are called the "white trash" of Tennessee, but I learnt incidentally that neither belonged to the place.
They were, in fact, "boatmen," whose home was here to-day, there to-morrow—wherever a chance of employment might turn up.
One evening Walter Woodley was absent when wanted by his sister for some purpose that required his presence upon the premises. Several messengers had been sent forth to find him.
Fancying he might be down at the creek, where the flat-builders were employed, and having nothing better to do, I sauntered in that direction to summon him. The place was half a mile from the house, and on the land formerly possessed by the Bradleys.
On reaching it, I found no one in the "ship-yard." It was after sunset, and the workmen, both white and black, were gone away for the night. I could see their tools stored in the shed.
As I had come on the wrong track to find the missing man, there was no reason for my hurrying home.
"He has got there by this time," was my reflection; and lighting a cigar, I strolled slowly back toward the house.