The other two were silent, for they also felt a twinge of homesickness at the idea of leaving the craft. Tad stretched out on the bare planking, ready for sleep after his miles of barefoot exploration. Soon he dropped off, in spite of the raucous chorus of drunken river-men returning to their boats, and it was to bright morning sunlight that he next opened his eyes. Abe was busy preparing some odds and ends of food for breakfast, while Allen sat back and plucked at his banjo strings. It was the old tune of “Skip to my Lou” that he was singing, but he had invented some new verses. Two of them were: “N’Orleans gals, you’re feelin’ blue, N’Orleans gals, you’re feelin’ blue, N’Orleans gals, you’re feelin’ blue, Skip to my Lou, my darlin’. “We’re bound to say good-by to you, We’re bound to say good-by to you, We’re bound to say good-by to you, Skip to my Lou, my darlin’.” He rolled his eyes sentimentally as he sang, and Abe chuckled over the frying-pan. “Wait till he gits back to Gentryville!” he said. “Folks up thar will git the idee that the whole valley’s littered up with the hearts he’s broke.” When breakfast was finished, Abe rolled up his ax and one or two other things he owned in his blanket, tied it with a rope, and laid it to one side. “Now, Tad,” said he, “we’ll go an’ rouse out this man McCann, so he kin tell that lunkhead in your father’s office who you are.” They took their way along the levee in the direction of the steamboat landings. When they had covered a little over half the distance, they saw a two-horse carriage coming rapidly toward them, and as it drew close, Abe pulled Tad out of its path behind a pile of baled cotton. Thus it was not until the carriage had gone past that the boy had a good look at its occupant. He was a big-framed man of middle age, in a beaver hat that looked travel-stained. His head and shoulders were bowed slightly as if by a burden. Tad seized Abe’s arm. “That was my Dad!” he said. “He’s on his way to the office from the boat. Come on!” Quickly they turned and followed the carriage toward the older section of the town. A few minutes of alternate running and walking brought them to St. Louis Street, and at the curb, sure enough, they saw the carriage drawn up. They went into the building and up the stairs, two at a time. The door of the office stood ajar. Tad entered first. There at his desk on the other side of the room sat his father, looking so gray and sad and careworn that Tad felt a great lump in his throat at the sight. He tried to shout “Dad!” but all that came was a choking sound.