"Was it not lucky I met him? They must fare well at the sugar-house," Abel said to himself, as he plunged down a steep bank into a rocky hollow.
There was a cluster of huts nestling opposite. Wooden screens from which in the spring and fall the fish-nets were hung to dry surrounded them. A few boats were hauled bottom upward before the door, and the icy water of the Hudson lapped the shore of a small inlet only a stone's throw distant. As he reached the door of one of the larger hovels he was seized with a violent attack of coughing, and in the midst of it the door was opened, and a rough, bearded man stood there holding a flickering candle, which he was shielding with his knotty fingers.
"What in the name of glory have we here?" he asked.
"Jonas, good friend, it is I," spluttered Abel. "There's work for you and Roger to-night, and money in it."
"Well," replied the man, speaking in a deep drawling tone, "come inside."
He held the door open, and Mr. Norton essayed to pass him. A coughing fit more violent than the first struck him like an internal hurricane, and, being close to the candle, the blast from his lips extinguished the light in an instant.
"You must have swallowed the north wind," said the fisherman. "Roger, lad, get a light."
There was a movement in the further corner, and a young man raking together the embers of the fire in the large stone fireplace. A blaze broke out, and the candle was soon relit, throwing dancing shadows over the beams strung with gill and seine nets. Piles of floats were littered about, a sheaf of oars and a few sturgeon lances stood in the corner. The floor was covered with shavings.
"And what is the business on a night like this?" spoke up the younger man, whom the other addressed as "Roger."
"You are to row a silent man across the river."