“Not much you wouldn’t,” exclaimed a voice beside him.
Henry Burns turned. The genial, kindly face of the steamboat captain met his gaze.
“It looks very pretty and all that, young man,” said the captain; “but it’s a hard life they lead aboard the dredgers. It’s knock-down and drag out all winter long, with bad food and little to show for it in wages when the winter’s done—that is, for the most of them. It’s not much like what you think it is, I reckon. But they do look pretty coming in; that’s a fact.”
The dredger, Z. B. Brandt, coming in from down along shore, may have, with others of its kind, presented a pretty sight as viewed from the deck of the river steamer. Most assuredly, the steamer, viewed from the deck of the dredger, looked good and inviting to the weary crew of the sailing vessel. To them, watching its approach, it represented all that they longed for—comfort, good food, freedom from abuse; and was a thing that would transport them home—if they could only, some day, reach it.
“PRESENTED A PRETTY SIGHT AS VIEWED FROM THE DECK OF THE RIVER STEAMER.”
Hamilton Haley, eying the steamer from a distance, suddenly uttered an exclamation of amazement. A figure that, in dim outline, suggested someone whom he had seen before, stood out against the sky, as the person leaned against the steamer’s rail.
“I’m blest if I wouldn’t swear that ere was young Artie Jenkins!” exclaimed Haley. “It’s him or his ghost. I’ll have a look at the chap. Here you, Harvey, skip down into the locker, starboard, forward, and fetch me up that glass. Lively now. I want it quick.”
Jack Harvey, who had long ere this learned the necessity of quick obedience aboard the dredger, hastened to obey. He brought the telescope and handed it to Captain Haley.
The latter, adjusting it to suit his eye, gave one long, careful look through the glass, then took it from his eye with another muttered exclamation.