Gayly painted shops, where one may buy anything from a penny roll to a steam-boiler, alternate with small, one-story "bonnet-roof" houses, with barred and jail-like windows. Past these an occasional group of meek-looking yellow coolies, as much alike in appearance as a flock of sheep, shuffle over the rude pavement. Occasionally the blackest kind of a negro from some neighboring plantation appears, driving before him three or four diminutive donkeys laden with sugar-cane or panniers of ripe fruit.
In the shade of the little stone custom-house, the open door of which is guarded by a negro, in tattered uniform, bearing a flint-lock musket, sits a drowsy Creole woman on the edge of the pavement. Before her, on a brazier of glowing coals, bubbles a pot of odorous soup, to be retailed to possible customers at a penny per bowl. Whatever may be the remaining ingredients of the compound, it is plainly evident that garlic predominates.
The reason why there is no one to admire the elaborately dressed young fellow on the corner is very simple. Queenston is taking its noonday siesta.
In every little court-yard and inclosure swing sleeping forms in grass hammocks, shaded by luxuriant growths of pawpaw, banana, and plantain, orange, mango, and tamarind, while above all towers the beautiful cocoa-palm with its clusters of golden green fruit.
"I might as well go down to the landing-steps and signal the Calypso to send the boat ashore," mutters Ned, with a yawn, himself not unaffected by the drowsy surroundings.
"Oh, I say!" suddenly exclaims a boyish voice behind him. Ned feels a timid touch on his shoulder, and he wheels sharply round. "I'm Joe Sampson," continues the new-comer, who is a young fellow a year or two younger than Ned, speaking in an eager, hurried tone, "and I belong out to Dedham, Massachusetts. I ran away from a Provincetown whaler. Don't you think your Cap'n will give a fellow a chance to work his passage back to the States?" And the gaunt, hollow-eyed, sun-browned face of the speaker is lit up with eager anticipation as he breathlessly awaits the other's answer.
Ordinarily Ned would have answered, "Of course he will," with hearty cordiality. But the thermometer indicates ninety-two degrees in the shade; he is hot, hungry, and irritable. Besides, Joe Sampson in his rimless straw hat, coarse blue shirt, tattered trousers, and worn-out shoes is anything but prepossessing as to outward appearance.
"I don't think Captain Hardy cares to ship a green hand," coldly begins Ned, and is thoroughly ashamed of his words as soon as he has spoken. But before he can mend them, Joe, with a mute gesture of despair, turns the corner, and hurries off.
"Hi, there!" shouts Ned, remorsefully, "hold on a bit." But Joe either can not or will not hear. He is walking along a narrow street of picturesque but unclean negro cabins—a street which ascending as it leaves the town limits, widens into a mountain road, leading upward to the heights which overhang Queenston on all but the harbor side.
Impulsive Ned stands for a few moments irresolute.