His wanderings on board, unchecked by any of the officers because there was a possibility he might be a passenger, led him to the furnace-room, which was entirely deserted. A cozy seat made of rough boards was just beside the open door of the furnace, from which the heat was escaping in very welcome quantities, and Andrew popped into it, smiling as he thought of the difference between cutting the wood and sitting there where he was so thoroughly comfortable.
"Talk 'bout dat yere wood-pile," he muttered, and then he was sound asleep, while the light of the glowing coals played about his face, causing it to assume all shades from a light bronze to an intense black.
ASLEEP IN THE FURNACE-ROOM.
No boy ever slept more soundly than did Andrew Jackson Washington Jones then, and none ever awoke more quickly than he when a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he was pushed on to the iron floor in anything rather than a gentle manner.
"G-'way from me, g'way—" and then he stopped speaking that he might open his mouth wide with astonishment as he saw a man, a very big, stout man, looking at him angrily.
"What are you doing here?" asked the big party, whom Andrew would have known to be the fireman, if he had been better acquainted with steamboat life.
"I's gwine cat-fishin' fur a spell," said the boy, his eyes opening wide as he closed his mouth to speak.
"Cat-fishin'! Perhaps you're runnin' this craft, and are goin' to take her out on a fishin' cruise?"
The sneer which accompanied the words was lost on the boy, as, suddenly thinking of the neglected work, he replied, in a dazed sort of way: