“All right, Tim Downey. You have got me in your power, and I suppose you intend to keep me there; but look out--you may go too far some day. Come aboard when the boat starts, and I’ll pass you. Mind you, though, don’t you come sneaking around me as if you knew me.” “All right--and the money?” “I’ll slip it to you during the trip. I hope you’re going to Springfield to stay.” “Well, I ain’t,” grinned Tim maliciously. “Ain’t what?” “Going to Springfield to stay.” “What are you going for, then?” “To get work.” “You work!” sneered Rodney contemptuously. “Yes; me work!” “At what?” “Steamboating.” Rodney Darringford regarded Tim contemptuously. “Who’ll hire you?” “The new steamboat company.” “Oh, at Springfield--down the river?” “No; at Millville,” mimicked Tim, with the keenest satisfaction at tormenting Rodney--“up the lake.” “What!” ejaculated Rodney. “Yes; up the lake.” “The new steamboat company?” “Precisely.” “There ain’t any.” “Ain’t there?” “Not that I heard of.” “You ain’t in the secret.” “Are you?” “Yes.” “A new company?” “With new boats. Judge Oglesby owns it, and your dearest friend, Dean Mercer, is to be captain of the first steamer, the _Spray_.” Rodney Darringford stared at Tim Downey as if he found it impossible to credit his amazing story. He listened with an excited face as Tim proceeded to tell how he had overheard the talk of the judge and Dean and Carboy. “It ruins your business,” he said. “Ruins it? Say, Tim, are you sure there’s no mistake? A new line of steamers. I must see my father. Come aboard later,” and in a wild flutter of excitement, Rodney darted away from the spot. Tim Downey chuckled. He enjoyed witnessing the downfall of those above him. “You young scoundrel. Is it you that my boy came to see?” Tim Downey, about to stroll toward the steamer at the pier, became suddenly conscious of the intrusion of a portly form from behind the pile of lumber. At the same moment that the harsh tones sounded on his hearing, a rough hand grasped his arm. Tim looked up, somewhat startled. Colonel Ebenezer Darringford, pompous, red-faced, and unmistakably intoxicated, glared down at him. “Hello, colonel!” muttered Tim. “Hello, colonel!” bellowed the wealthy shipowner. “You young thief, I’ll cane you for your insolent familiarity. See here, I saw my boy come here. He’s been getting into bad company lately, and I’ve been watching him. Did he come here to see you?” “He did, colonel.” “What about?” Tim drew a breath of relief. The colonel, then, had not overheard their conversation. “About--well, you see, I’m only a poor boy!” whined Tim hypocritically. “A thief and vagabond, you mean.” “Yes, sir,” murmured Tim humbly, dropping the vernacular in which he usually spoke. “Rodney has got a kind heart in him, and he offered to take me free to Springfield to get work.” “Hum! You work! What else? Out with it, you reprobate. I can see by your eye that you are lying to me.”