A group of fastidiously dressed passengers, thronging her upper decks, looked down with laughing interest at the scene on the landing. The men were holding watches and laying wagers on the time of the steamer’s departure. In less than half an hour the last huge barrel was in place on the forward cargo deck and the mate cried his “All aboard,” as the negroes ran the gangplank in. With a clang of bells the big boat’s paddles churned the water and she backed out, wheeling into the current. Tad, looking up a little wistfully at her gleaming brass and freshly painted upper works, watched her whole magnificent length sweep by. And then suddenly he gripped the gunwale of the flatboat and stared open-mouthed. For high up on the hurricane deck, astern, he had seen a solitary figure--a big middle-aged man with a beaver hat and a familiar set to the shoulders. The man was just turning to leave the rail and he was unable to get a good view of his face, but he was almost sure.... “Dad!” he screamed, with all the voice he could muster, “Dad!” There had been a feather of white steam up aloft on the _Tecumseh’s_ funnel when he started to shout, and as he launched his cry a deafening blast of the whistle came, drowning him out. Another long-drawn hoot and two short ones followed. Before they were finished, the steamboat was a hundred yards away, and the man who looked like Tad’s father had vanished down the companionway. The boy had a great lump in his throat as he turned away. He stumbled aft and sat down beside Poke, blinking his eyes fast to keep back the unmanly tears. Abe had heard him shout and now came over to stand behind him, dropping a big hand casually on his shoulder. “Reckon that was your father?” he asked. Tad nodded. “I couldn’t be sure,” he answered, “but it looked a lot like him.” “Wal,” said Abe, “I know how ye feel, right enough, but don’t take it too hard. He’ll be back in New Orleans to meet ye. Didn’t ye tell him in yer letter that we’d be thar next week?” “Sure,” Tad replied. “Only he must be pretty worried, or he wouldn’t be on his way up to try to find me, now.” Allen had been up on the levee, watching the _Tecumseh’s_ departure and chatting with a crowd of flatboat men. Now he returned with the look of one bearing news. “Hey, Tad,” he called as he jumped aboard, “what was the name o’ that boat that was expected in Shawneetown--the one the postmaster said he’d mail yer letter by?” “The _Nancy Jones_,” said Tad. “That’s what I thought,” Allen nodded. “Wal, they tol’ me up on the bank jest now that the _Nancy Jones_ was blowed up two weeks ago in Vicksburg bend, an’ lost with more’n half her passengers an’ crew.” Tad’s jaw dropped. “Then--then Dad doesn’t even know I’m alive,” he stammered. “No wonder he’s on his way up the river.”