In the hurry and excitement of preparation and departure, the orders I had given and received, and the work that filled every moment, I had been conscious of the uneasy burden of a task forgotten. I had surely neglected something. Yet for my life I could not see that we lacked anything. I had my seven retainers, the boy was safe with us, I had my purse, we were well-armed, and every man had his ticket to Livermore. But at last the cause of my troubles came to my mind. “Great Scott!” I thought. “It's Doddridge Knapp. That little engagement in the stock-market is casting its shadow before.” It seemed likely indeed that the demands of my warring employers would clash here as well as in the conflict over the boy. Yet with all the vengeful feeling that filled my heart as I looked on the child and called up the memory of my murdered friend, I could but feel a pang of regret at the prospect that Doddridge Knapp's fortune should be placed in hazard through any unfaithfulness of mine. He had trusted me with his plans and his money. And the haunting thought that his fortune was staked on the venture, and that his ruin might follow, with the possible beggary of Luella and Mrs. Knapp, should I fail him at tomorrow's crisis, weighed on my spirits. My uncomfortable reflections were broken by the clanging engine-bells and the forward movement of the passengers as the steamboat passed into the slip at Long Wharf. “Stand together, boys,” I cautioned my men. “Keep back of the crowd. Wainwright will take the boy, and the rest of you see that nobody gets near him.” “All right,” said Wainwright, lifting the child in his arms. “It will take a good man to get him away from me.” “Where's Abrams?” I asked, noting that only six of my men were at hand. “You sent him forward,” said Lockhart. “Not for all day.” “Well, he hasn't been seen since you told him to find out who's aboard.” I was a little vexed at the seeming neglect of my retainer, and as we had come down the rear stairs to avoid the crowd and marched through the driveway on the lower deck, I cast a glance into the bar-room with the expectation of finding him engaged in the gentle art of fortifying his courage. But no sign of the missing man met my eye. “It's no use to wait for him,” I growled. “But the next man that takes French leave had better look somewhere else for a job, for by the great horn spoon, he's no man of mine.” We marched off the boat in the rear of the crowd, I in no pleasant humor, and the men silent in reflection of my displeasure. And with some difficulty we found seats together in a forward coach. I arranged my men in three seats on one side of the car and two on the other, Wainwright taking the center of the three with the boy, guarded thus front and rear, while I sat opposite and one seat behind, where I could observe any attempt at interference, with Lockhart in front of me. I judged that any one who tried to attack the position would have a lively five minutes on his hands.