There yet lingered in the mind of Henry Burns an indignation born of the act he had seen on the passing vessel.
“Say, Mr. Warren,” he began, as they walked along along—
“Don’t call him ‘Mr. Warren.’ Call him ‘Ed,’” interrupted George Warren.
“Yes, that’s right,” responded Edward Warren, good-naturedly.
“I saw a man knocked down on a vessel as we sailed into the harbour,” continued Henry Burns. “Isn’t it a shame to treat men like that?”
Edward Warren paused, and clenched a big, strong fist. He raised it and gestured like a man striking someone a blow.
“Shame!” he repeated. “It’s downright wicked, the way those dredging captains—or a good many of them—treat the men. Why, we get them on shore here, through the winter, half starved, and half clad, begging their way back to Baltimore. If a man is taken sick out aboard, and isn’t fit to work any more, why, the captain takes him ashore, to gather wood, or something of that sort. Then he cuts and leaves him to starve or freeze, or get back to town the best way he can. And sometimes, they don’t take even that trouble, if they’re safe down the bay—just let a man slump overboard—accidentally, of course,—and that’s the last seen of him.”
“Don’t his friends ever get track of him?” asked Henry Burns.
“Not often,” replied Edward Warren. “They’re almost always poor chaps, without any friends that can do them any good; fellows that are reduced to poverty in the cities, or men who have been dissipating and gone to the bad. And those don’t last long with the life they lead aboard the dredgers.”
“Well, that poor chap that I saw knocked down would have one friend if I could help him,” exclaimed Henry Burns.