For some reason he could not quite define, Tad was frightened. Surely there was nothing strange about the man’s actions. A little drunk perhaps, but incidents like that were to be expected in a river-front tavern. He watched him partially undress and tumble into the bed, where presently his snores began to mingle with those of the first sleeper. And not till then did Tad draw a full breath. Stealthily he felt beneath his pillow for the purse. It was there, safe and sound. He wound the leather thong tightly about his fingers and lay quiet, too much disturbed to sleep. An hour crept by. Somewhere off in the woods back of the town a fox barked, and hound dogs answered with a frenzy of baying. A tipsy roisterer went past, mouthing a river song. Then gradually the noises of the night subsided, and Tad dropped off to sleep. CHAPTER II Bright April sunshine, streaming in the window of the room, flooded the bare walls with matter-of-fact daylight. It shone in Tad’s eyes, and he woke up with a start. The steamboat! It left at eight. He reached for his big silver watch under the pillow, and found to his relief that it was only a few minutes after six. At the same time he discovered the purse, still firmly attached to his hand. The terror of the night seemed ludicrous now. He chuckled at his own timidity and began dressing rapidly. The two other occupants of the chamber were still heavily asleep when Tad doused his face and hands in the wash basin, strapped his traveling-bag, and went out. In the front bar there was only a single customer--a humorous-faced little Irishman in brass-buttoned blue clothes, who sat beside a table with a glass of hot toddy in one hand and a pipe in the other. He looked at Tad jovially. “Bedad, an’ it’s glad I am the last barrel is aboard!” he said, quite as if they had known each other for years. “Are you one of the steamboat men?” the boy asked. “I am that, lad--first mate of the _Ohio Belle_, an’ a terrible tired one. We’ve been takin’ cargo for two days an’ nights on end. An’ now I’ve got a half hour ashore while they’re a-gettin’ up steam.” “Does she sail in half an hour?” asked Tad. “Or sooner,” replied the Irish mate. “Th’ ould man’s a driver whin his cargo’s once loaded. If it’s breakfast ye’re thinkin’ of, wait and have it aboard with me. I take it ye’re bound down river. I’ve bread and butter and a cold chicken in me locker, and we’ll get coffee from that black son o’ Ham in the galley. The passengers ain’t supposed to begin gettin’ their meals aboard till dinner time. But we’ll have a breakfast, or my name’s not Dennis McCann.” The plan sounded like a good one to Tad. He waited while the mate finished his glass and paid his score; then, shouldering the bulky portmanteau, he followed him down the hill. “Ye see,” said McCann, “this steamboatin’ is only a bit of a change like, for me. Me real business is deep-water sailin’, as ye may tell by the roll o’ me legs.”