The seventy-six miles to Albany was covered the next day, in spite of the adverse current; and at nightfall the “Gazelle” was anchored almost within sight of the Empire State’s Capitol building.
The first thing Kenneth did at Albany the next morning was to apply to State Superintendent of Public Works Partridge for a permit to go through the Erie Canal—the long link in the chain that was to carry the cruisers to their native lakes again. Colonel Partridge was so cordially interested in the cruise, that he introduced Kenneth and his friends to some newspaper men. So, for the time they were the talk of the town.[[1]]
With his permit in his pocket, Kenneth went uptown to see a friend of his father’s who was holding some money for him that he needed very badly. As usual, the story of the cruise had to be told at length, and with much detail; and it was late when the captain finally took his departure, at peace with all the world by reason of the roll of greenbacks in his pocket, and of the good things in the inner boy. Clad in his navy-blue sailor blouse, he walked with the true sailor swing down to the river front, and putting his fingers to his lips blew the shrill signal to his shipmates to notify them that he was ready to go aboard. It was a long way to the yacht, and Kenneth putting his back to a spile prepared to take it easy while he waited for the small boat.
Like most great cities, the dives, the cut-throat saloons, and places of that sort were situated near the water front, spread like a spider’s web for the unwary sailor. Ransom noticed as he walked through the narrow streets towards the river, that the saloons were disgorging their disreputable patrons previous to closing up, and several times he had crossed to the other side to avoid coming into direct contact with them.
As he sat on the stringpiece over the water, looking off to where the bright lantern marked his floating home, he suddenly realized instinctively that some one was coming stealthily up behind him; with a tight grip on his nerves he turned slowly as if perfectly calm, to see who it was.
The arc lights along the street cast a flare of strong light directly about the poles supporting them, but a little way off the shadows were correspondingly dense. Lurking in one of these spots of shadow, Kenneth saw the figure of a man approaching him noiselessly. There was that about him which told that he had been drinking. A stray ray of light showed the boy the cruel, debased, evil face and he looked about for a way of escape. The buildings fronting on the street were closed tight, their inhabitants fast asleep—no shelter there; back of him, the river lay black, ready to completely engulf whatever might fall into it. “And I haven’t got a thing to defend myself with,” the boy said to himself. The drunken man approached nearer, an unpleasant leer on his face.
“Say, Jack, give us the price of a drink,” he said in a tone that suggested more clearly than words, “or it will be the worse for you.”
Kenneth thought of the roll of bills in his pocket, and glanced at the dark water below him, then like a flash it occurred to him that the bum had taken him for a sailor—a man-o’-warsman—and a plan suggested itself to him which he immediately proceeded to put into execution.
It was rather difficult for him to assume the gruff, husky voice of a hard drinker, but he managed it pretty well. “Sorry I can’t ’commodate you, mate,” he said, gruffly, “but I’m busted—clean, and looking for a berth. Got shore leave, and blew in all my dough. Got jagged and don’t know how to get back to the ship.”
The boy almost gagged at the language, but he played the game well, and the bluff worked, for the drunk was satisfied. He said something about “hard luck when a bloke hasn’t got the price of a drink in his clothes,” and slouched off. Ransom breathed a sigh of relief, but not till he was safe aboard the yacht did he feel entirely comfortable.