“That’s the word, Skippy,” said Toby Dare bitterly. “The Minnie M. Baxter’s been condemned an’ you an’ me are condemned along with her.”
CHAPTER III
THE BASIN
Brown’s Basin was off the beaten track, even nautically speaking. One could never have found it except by the merest chance, unless one were fortunate enough to have a companion who was familiar with it. The rivermen knew, perhaps knew too well, as did the police who preferred to get no closer to the colony than the shadowy inlet which sulks silently in the daylight hours and strangely springs to life under cover of the blackest nights.
The Basin, as it is more familiarly known, thrives under the protection of the lofty Palisades. In summer the foliage all but hides it from the shore, and in winter the grim, gray rocks give it ample security from the prying eyes of the world. And the Basin wishes that security, for the character of the residents is such that secrecy and isolation provide the means for their livelihood and their existence.
Perhaps half a hundred derelict barges dot the slimy mud banks of the Basin, some of them occupied and some not. But on the whole the combined population of this sordid looking place represents a fair number and on bright, sunlit mornings one can get an occasional glimpse from the steep river road of poorly clad children scrambling from one to the other of the closely packed barges, much the same as they would scramble across city streets.
Large planks connect the sprawling hulks in a sort of interminable chain and the denizens can traverse the entire settlement by this means. More often than not the family laundry waving in the damp river breeze on the forward deck must be dodged by this strolling citizenry, but they are quite used to all forms of adroit evasion, particularly where the law is concerned.
It was into this little lawless colony that the Minnie M. Baxter was towed. Sunset had long since gone, leaving but a hint of vermilion colored sky at the horizon as the kicker chugged silently farther and farther into the muddy waters of the inlet. Skippy steered the motor-boat and Toby Dare struggled at the tiller of the barge while most of the colonists looked on indifferently. They sprawled about on the various decks, men, women and children.
Criticism, both friendly and otherwise, reached Toby Dare’s sensitive ears, but he paid little heed, using his own judgment as to a suitable spot in which to rest the ill-fated barge. It was a spot at the very edge of the Basin that he chose and so manifest was its isolation from the rest of the colony that but one inference could be drawn: Toby Dare did not intend his son or himself to be drawn into that maelstrom of dubious citizenry. His grief over the recent misfortune in no way blunted his keen senses and, as always, Skippy’s future welfare was uppermost in his mind.
“They’re people what ain’t partic’lar ’bout things, Sonny,” he explained while the Minnie M. Baxter was settling in the mud. “They—well, they can’t help it, but they’re folks what ain’t carin’ whether their boys is fetched up right or not. They jest let their kids live day after day sorta an’ they don’t think uv next year. Me, I’m always a-thinkin’ ’bout you a year ahead—see? So it ain’t no use botherin’ with folks what thinks different.”
“I see, Pop,” said Skippy looking musingly into the rust-colored water. “You know all about ’em, huh?”