Joe thought of his penniless condition. It might not be long, indeed, before he would be starving. Here was a chance to obtain at least food and shelter, and probably enough to buy an overcoat. “Well,” he said, “I’ll go.” “All right. Have you had any breakfast?” “No.” “Come along with me, an’ I’ll give you some.” Joe’s spirits rose again at the thought of breakfast. He followed the man down the dock a short distance, then from the dock to a canal-boat lying close by, and from this boat to another, and still another. When the last boat was reached, they went down into the cabin, where a colored man was cooking food. A leaf projecting from the wall was already propped to a horizontal position, and on it were a few plates, knives and forks, a dish of warmed-up potatoes, a slice or two of fried ham, and some bread and butter. The negro was preparing coffee also. The odor of it all was very pleasant to Joe as he climbed down the steep cabin stairs, and he did not wait long after being told to help himself. “I’ve hired this boy for the trip,” the man explained to his cook. “What’s your name, young feller, anyhow?” he continued, turning to the boy. “Joe.” “What else?” “That’s all,--for the present, anyway.” “Oh, I see! Run away, did ye? Well, I won’t be so partic’ler. My name’s Rosencamp,--Bill Rosencamp. Cap’n Bill, for short. An’ this gentleman’s name,” turning to the negro, “is Blixey. He’s like you; he’s only got one name; but he can’t help it,--he never had no other.” Blixey laughed immoderately at this, and poured the coffee with an unsteady hand. He seemed to be so weak and wavering in all his movements, his eyes were so bloodshot, and his utterance so thick, that Joe thought he must have been drinking; but he had not been,--at any rate, not that morning. Joe enjoyed his breakfast greatly. Though it was a coarse meal, it was the best he had eaten for many days, and when he was done with it he was ready to go to work, and said so. Accordingly he was sent to scrub the deck, while Blixey washed the dishes, and the captain looked after the tow. A bustling little tug-boat had already made fast to a fleet of empty canal-boats, Rosencamp’s among the number, and was hauling them up the stream. Rondout was now awake. The island in the bay was a scene of great activity. The clang of heavy machinery and the rasping noise of coal sliding on iron surfaces filled the air. Boats were moving in all directions. There were a hundred people on the wharf, and twice a hundred, many of them women and little children on the decks of the moored canal-boats. Up the stream the scene became picturesque. On each side were precipitous hills, wooded to the river’s edge, their green heights reflected in the still water at their feet. There were cement mines to be seen, and old white-faced mansions; and half-way up the boat passed under a lofty iron bridge across which dashed a railway train.