George at the Wheel

The captain saw him coming, and knowing who he was, delayed the order to cast off until Tony had run up the gang-plank. The latter stopped on the hurricane-deck to exchange a few words of greeting with the "old man," and then went into the pilot-house, where he found George Ackerman at the wheel. George had now been on the river for more than six months, and the reader will have some idea of the progress he had made in his new vocation when we tell him that he was the only pilot on board the Telegraph at that moment, that Mr. Black, after being engaged for the trip, had gone to Webster Groves to take leave of his family, that his partner, Mr. Kelsey, was somewhere on shore, and that neither of them had felt the least hesitation in leaving George to take the boat up to the coal-fleet, and bring her back again.

Our hero did not yet know the river, but he was a fine steersman, and could make a landing or get the boat under way almost as well as anybody. He was worth something now, and Mr. Black paid him twenty dollars a month for his services. Regarding this in the light of a promotion, George wrote to Texas about it, and was afterwards very sorry that he had done so, for Uncle John, prompted by Ned, at once shut down on the monthly allowance which he had thus far sent him regularly. The amount he received was enough to clothe him as well as he cared to dress; he was under no expense for board, for when he was not running on the river, he lived with Mr. Black, in his home at Webster Groves. But still George did not like that act on the part of Uncle John. It showed him that his guardian was determined to exercise all the authority he possessed, and more, too, if he could.

"How are you, Tony?" exclaimed George. "Sit down until I back her out and straighten her up, and then I'll talk to you."

"And I'll take your place at the wheel, won't I?" said Tony, as he took a seat on the elevated bench.

"Of course; that's always understood."

The two boys, having often been thrown into each other's society of late, were well acquainted, and a sort of friendship had sprung up between them. Mr. Black had been employed on one or another of Mr. Richardson's boats ever since he left the General Quitman, and of course George went with him everywhere as his assistant. Tony, who thoroughly hated school and everything belonging to it, was deeply in love with the water, and spent all his leisure hours in loitering about the levee; and whenever any of his father's boats were moved from one wharf-boat to another, or sent up to the coal-fleet, Tony was generally on hand to do the steering. He took unbounded delight in a boat, and looked forward with impatience to the day when he would take his position as captain of one of the swiftest and most beautiful steamers on the river. What sort of an apprenticeship he would have to serve before he would be qualified to fill so responsible a berth, Tony did not know. In fact, it was something about which he seldom troubled himself. There was one thing he was certain of, however, and that was, he was not going to begin as deck hand or watchman, or even as clerk or mate. The deck hands were a low set, in Tony's estimation. Besides, they were obliged to handle the freight, and that was not a genteel business. Watchmen were only a grade higher than the deck hands, clerks had too much to do with figures, and mates were generally too rough in dress and language to suit the boy. He had heard of men stepping from the pilot-house into the captain's place, and if he had to serve in any subordinate capacity before he could take command of a steamer, he thought he would rather be a pilot than anything else. These officers and the clerks comprise the aristocracy among river men. They generally dress in the height of fashion, sport a good deal of jewelry, and the pilots, if they choose to do so, can wear kid gloves while they are at work. Their money comes easily, and, as a rule, goes easier. Where there is one prudent man among them, like Mr. Black, who puts his earnings into a home, there are a dozen who make all haste to get rid of them.

We ought to say right here, that the prospect of becoming a riverman, did not exactly suit Tony. His first love was the sea. He thought about it during his waking hours, and dreamed of it when he was asleep. He sang forecastle songs, told sea stories, and tried to talk and walk like a sailor. When his father emphatically refused to aid him in carrying out his insane ideas, Tony shed a good many tears in secret; banged his school-books about more spitefully than ever; and fell back upon the river as the next best thing to think about. If he went there he would accept nothing but a high position, and he would hold it only temporarily; for as soon as he became his own master, he would start as straight for salt water as he could go.

"How do you like the river by this time?" asked Tony, as the Telegraph was backed rapidly away from the wharf-boat.

"First rate!" replied George with great enthusiasm. "I like it better and better every day, and I know I shall never get tired of it. I don't think I should like to go back to herding cattle again."

"Well, there's no need of it. If I were my own master, as you are, I should do as I please."

"And you would please to go to sea, I suppose?"

"Of course I would. That is what I am going to do sometime; and I don't see why my father will not let me go now."

"Perhaps he has something better in view for you," suggested George.

"He can't have anything in view for me that will suit me half so well," replied Tony, with the air of one who had made up his mind. "I am old enough to know what I want, and what I don't want. Let me have her now."

The Telegraph had by this time been backed away from the levee, and straightened up the river, and George felt safe in resigning the wheel to his companion. But he did not go far away from it. There were a good many boats running about, some moving out of their berths and others going in; and as it required some skill to steer clear of all of them, George stood close by, so that he could seize the wheel in an instant; while Tony, who was no mean steersman, managed it with one hand, and kept up an almost constant signaling with the other.

When two boats meet, one going down and the other up the river, or if a boat is backing out into the stream while another is coming up, the upper boat has the right of way, but the lower one always whistles first. For example, Smith, who is piloting a boat up the river, may whistle once to notify Brown, who is coming down the river, that he (Smith) intends to turn his boat to the right, so as to pass by on Brown's left hand. If the latter is satisfied with the arrangement, he gives notice of the fact by whistling once in reply; but if he is not satisfied with it, if he wants to make a landing, or pick up a tow, or do anything else that required him to make Smith pass by on his right hand instead of the left, he whistles twice; and Smith must reply to the signal, to show that he understands it; get his boat out of Brown's way, and go by on the other side. The burden of the responsibility in avoiding a collision, if one seemed likely to occur, would rest with the pilot who was going up the river; for the reason, that his vessel could be handled much more easily and quickly, than the one that was coming down driven by all the force of a powerful current. George had learned all these things, as well as a good many others, during the comparatively short time he had been under Mr. Black's instructions; and knowing his responsibility, he did not feel willing to trust his boat entirely in the hands of his friend Tony.

The nearer the Telegraph approached to the coal-fleet, which was composed of a number of barges moored to the bank two or three miles above the city, the clearer the river became, and presently George moved away from the wheel and seated himself on the bench. He kept one eye on Tony, who was too busy to talk, and the other out ahead to see that nothing came in their way.

The young pilot had been acquainted with his new friend long enough to know that he was a very discontented boy, and he could not see why it was so. He did not then know that the source of happiness is within ourselves, and that our surroundings have not so much to do with it as our own dispositions. By Tony's invitation he had once accompanied him to his home, and he had found there all the aids to happiness that any reasonable boy could ask for; but still Mr. Richardson was strict, and Tony was very much of a rebel The more he resisted lawful authority the tighter the reins were drawn, until Tony finally came to the conclusion that home was always a dreary place, that fathers found no pleasure in life except in denying their sons every gratification on which they had set their hearts, and that no boy of any spirit would put up with such a state of affairs after he became able to take care of himself. George was not long in finding out how matters stood, and he wasted all his eloquence in the effort to make Tony believe that he was then seeing the happiest years of his life.

"You may some time know by experience, what it is to have no home to go to," said George. "Stranger things than that have happened, you know, and then you will wish that you had made the most of these days, which now seem so gloomy to you, and improved the opportunities you slight every hour of your life."

"You needn't preach," snapped Tony, in reply. "Haven't you told me more than once that you left home because you were not happy there?"

"I have told you that I left Texas because I was not safe there," answered George.

"Well, it was your home, wasn't it?"

"It used to be."

"You lived in the same house that you lived in while your father was alive?"

George said he did.

"And your father's only brother was your guardian and had charge of the house?"

George said that was so, too.

"Then it was your home," said Tony, triumphantly; "and to be consistent, you ought to have stayed there, whether you wanted to or not."

"But haven't I told you that I couldn't stay?" asked George.

"And haven't I told you that I can't stay here?" retorted Tony. "This is not a new notion of mine. I have been thinking about it for a long time – in fact, ever since I went into algebra. It is hard work for me to go to school."

"It will be harder for you to earn your own living. I know what work is, and you don't. There is no need of your going to sea, or running on the river."

"I know what you mean. Of course, I shall be a rich man some day, if I live, but I don't care for that. I want liberty to do as I please, more than I want money, and I want it now. What's more, I'm going to have it, either with or without – "

"Your father's consent," added George, when Tony paused.

"That's just it. I don't know that I ought to be so plain with you, but you will not repeat what I say?"

"I have better business than carrying tales," replied George. "If your father should ever say anything to me about it, I should tell him the truth, and some day you would thank me for it. I know what you have in your mind, and you had better take my advice and give it up."

"More preaching," said Tony, with a laugh. "I give you fair warning that you will never make a convert of me, for you don't know what you are talking about. You have led a free and easy life there on the plains, being under no restraint, but coming and going as you pleased, and what do you know of the trials and tribulations of a boy who is held with his nose tight to the grindstone every day? Come, George, give us a rest. If you do not let my father into my secret before he broaches the subject to you, you will never say a word to him about it."

There was not the slightest danger that Mr. Richardson would ever speak to George about Tony, but it was not very long before he took occasion to speak to Tony about George. The next evening, while they were seated in the cars waiting for the train to start toward home, Mr. Richardson suddenly looked up from his paper and said:

"Anthony, who was that fellow you brought home with you yesterday?"

"He's not a fellow," answered the boy. "His name is Ackerman, and he is Mr. Black's cub. He runs on one of your boats."

"Well, just drop him now; and don't bring him or anybody like him out to Kirkwood any more. When you have so many nice acquaintances, I can't imagine why you should be so intimate with those rivermen," said Mr. Richardson.

"They are the ones who have made your money for you," said Tony.

"I am aware of that; and they have been well paid for serving me. I find no fault with the men themselves – a braver and more skilful class cannot be found anywhere – but I do object to the morals of the most of them. Having passed some of the best years of my life on the river, I ought to know something about rivermen. This boy you speak of may be all right now, but he is under bad influences."

George never heard of this conversation between Tony and his father, and there was nothing in Tony's behavior toward him to indicate that such an interview had ever taken place. The latter kept track of the different boats on which Mr. Black was employed, and whenever one of them came into port, Tony made it a point to visit the cub pilot as soon as he could get out of school. He liked George, and he had but one fault to find with him; the latter had been a cattle raiser, and Tony wished he had been a sailor, so that he could have talked with him about the sea.

The Telegraph reached the coal-fleet in due time, and fortunately for Tony there was another boat there, the Ida Clifford, which, having filled her bunkers, was about to return to the city. Being acquainted with one of the pilots, Tony went aboard of her and steered her down, thus saving himself a long walk. On arriving at the landing he went ashore, and started for his father's office on Fourth street. When he reached it, he saw Mr. Richardson standing in the door drawing on his gloves.

"Ah!" said he, as Tony came up. "I began to think I should have to start for home without you. You have been kept after school as usual, I suppose?

"Yes, sir," replied Tony, "And when I got out, I went up to the coal-fleet on the Telegraph."

"Well, now that you have come, we will start for the depot. We have barely time to catch the train."

Mr. Richardson lived in Kirkwood, a beautiful little village located about thirteen miles from the river. Its society was made up principally of the families of wealthy men who did business in St. Louis. Living within easy reach of the city, they were still far enough away from it to escape all its heat, dust and noise. Tony and his father came in every morning on the seven o'clock train, and returned together in the evening after business hours were over.

"I should think you would get tired of being kept after school," said Mr. Richardson, as they walked toward the depot. "The report you bring home every week shows you to be anything but a faithful student. What do you expect to gain by so foolish a waste of time?"

"I don't expect to gain anything by it," replied Tony. "I only want to get through my school-days with as little trouble and work as I can. I shall be glad when they are over."

"And you want to get through life in the same way, I suppose?" said his father.

"No, sir; I am willing to work, and I should like to begin to-morrow. I want to go to sea."

"Anthony, you might as well give up that idea first as last. You will never go with my consent. I don't see what put that notion into your head. You have about as clear an idea of what would be required of you on shipboard as you have of the duties of a book-keeper."

"Will you let me do the next best thing, then? Will you let me go on the river?"

"No, indeed. I want to see you something better than a steamboat man."

"I should really like to know what you want me to be, anyhow," said Tony, with some impatience.

"I want to see you a respected member of society, for one thing," said his father. "I hope you will not think that your school-days are over until you have been through college. That was one thing I missed, for I began life poor; but I don't want you to miss it. I can see now how advantageous such training would have been to me. Get your education first, and decide upon your life-work afterwards."

"But I don't want to go to college," said Tony; "and I won't, either," he added, in an undertone. "I am not going to study myself to death for the sake of reading Greek and Latin. I don't want to go to school any longer," he said, aloud. "I had the best notion in the world to pack up my books to-night and take them home with me."

"That would have been a useless waste of strength and time on your part, for on Monday morning you would have had the pleasure of packing them up again and taking them back with you," said Mr. Richardson, bringing the iron ferule of his heavy cane down upon the sidewalk with more than his usual energy. "I believe I shall have something to say in regard to your conduct for at least five years to come."

"Then I must go to school, whether I want to or not, must I?"

He asked this question in a tone of voice which he intended should make an impression on his father, and lead him to see that his son had resolved upon something. But, contrary to his expectations, Mr. Richardson did not seem to be at all affected by it. He answered very calmly and decidedly,

"Certainly, you must."

"Well, if you won't let me go to sea, as you know I have long wanted to do, nor on the river either, can't you find a place for me in your office?"

"I am going to give him every chance," said Tony, to himself, "and if he doesn't see fit to improve one of them, he must take the responsibility for anything that happens."

"I have no place for you," replied his father. "There is nothing in the office you can do, unless you act as messenger boy, and I certainly shall not discharge young Bowman to make an opening for you. He needs the money he earns, for he is the only support of a widowed mother."

"Couldn't I be a clerk of some kind?" asked Tony. "I have given him another chance."

"No, indeed. My clerks must all understand figures. I do wish you would wake up and go to work in earnest. Anthony, didn't you tell me last Christmas that if I would buy you a pony, you would work hard at your books for a whole year?"

Tony believed he did have a faint recollection of making some such promise.

"You have got the pony, and how have you kept your word?"

The boy did not reply to this question. The truth of the matter was, he had learned, as a good many of us have, that there is more pleasure in looking forward to the possession of a thing, than there is in possessing it. The pride he at first felt in having a horse of his own, very soon gave place to an unreasonable hostility toward the animal. It was not so easy to ride him as it looked to be, and he was so slow of foot that one of the Kirkwood boys offered to bet a six-bladed, pearl-handled knife against Tony's "Barlow," that he could find a fellow who could beat him in a fair race. Tony couldn't afford to study hard for a whole year to pay for such a pony as that.

"But whether you wake up or not," continued Mr. Richardson, "you can depend upon one thing: you are going to stay at school until you know more than you do now."

"We'll see about that," was Tony's mental rejoinder. "I have tried my best more than a dozen times to induce him to let me leave school – I'd rather saw wood than pore over these books day after day – but he is bound to disregard all my wishes, and now I will see how he'll feel when he finds that I have disregarded his. I never can do anything I want to do as long as I stay here, and I'm going to make a break. I am going out into the world to begin life in earnest. I am off for salt water!"

As Tony said this, he closed his lips tightly and looked very determined, indeed.

CHAPTER XI

DOWN THE RIVER ON A COAL-BARGE

Tony Richardson had never held five minutes conversation with a sailor, he had never seen the ocean or a ship, and the inquiry will very naturally arise: What could have put it into his head to go to sea? The idea was suggested to him through the same hurtful influence that had made a thief of Bob Owens, and sent him out into the world to make himself famous as a hunter and Indian fighter. Perhaps you don't believe that so simple a thing as reading a story could affect a boy's whole life? If so, what do you think of the following, which recently appeared in a Rochester paper? We have copied it just as it was printed, with these exceptions: the names of the culprits have been changed, and another substituted for that of the paper in which the story referred to appeared:

"BOYS' PAPERS AND INCENDIARISM

"The speedy arrest of the 'fire-bugs,' who amused themselves two or three evenings in this city by firing buildings, was highly gratifying to our citizens, many of whom began to feel a little nervous over the operations of the young rascals. We refer to them and their work in this place because they afford another illustration of the pernicious influence upon boyish minds of evil literature. Damon, the elder of the two, is eighteen, and his companion, Volbets, is twelve years old. The former, when captured, had in his pocket two copies of the Boys of the Nation, one of those abominable sheets filled with wild stories of crime and adventure so fascinating to ill-disciplined minds, and he said that he was inspired to his criminal work by reading the story of 'Rory of the Hills; or, the Outlaws of Tipperary.' These boys had already burned down a house on Orchard street and a stave factory, when they were arrested, and they had planed to fire three more Wednesday night, if the detectives had not spoiled their game."

That proves, beyond a doubt, that stories have an effect of some kind, does it not? Tony Richardson had imbibed some very ridiculous ideas through the same channel. The story that made the greatest impression upon him was the "Phantom Cruiser," which he had read and re-read until he knew it almost by heart. It described the adventures and exploits of a boy who, after passing through all sorts of perils, such as shipwrecks, and battles with pirates, was finally turned adrift by a mutinous crew because he would not join his fortunes with theirs, and blown upon an uninhabited island in mid ocean. There he accidentally stumbled upon a bed of pearl oysters, of wonderful richness, and after he had loaded himself down with the valuable gems, he escaped from the island, and set out for home to reward his friends and excite the envy of all his enemies. Tony's thoughts often wondered off to that island when they ought to have been fixed on his books. They wandered off there now, while he was walking toward the depot with his father, and he hoped, and sometimes he believed, that his sailor life would have an ending quite as romantic and glorious.

Unfortunately for Tony, the realities of life had no charm for him. He was constantly building air-castles, and looking for something that never came. He lived in a little world of his own creation, and he was not happy unless he was wandering about that world, and mingling with the impossible beings with which his lively imagination had peopled it.

Having decided to "make a break," Tony went further, and made up his mind that he would do it without any unnecessary delay. He could not go on the river without his father's consent, for almost all the steamboat men who ran out of St. Louis were acquainted with him, and some of them would be sure to tell Mr. Richardson that they had seen him. If he went anywhere, he must go to sea. But just here a difficulty arose: How was he going to make his way to New Orleans, which was the nearest port at which he could ship on an ocean-going vessel? There were three ways open to him. He could ask some steamboat captain to pass him, or he could ship as deck hand, or he could pay his fare in the cabin. There were objections to every one of these plans. If he asked for a pass, he would be sure to get it, but he would have to answer a thousand and one questions. Did his father say he might go to New Orleans? and, if so, why didn't Tony take passage on one of his boats?

"That would never do," soliloquised the boy, who had thought all these things over more than once. "When I leave here I want to disappear as completely as though I had ceased to exist. If father should find out that I had left for New Orleans, it would be just like him to telegraph there and stop me. I can't work my way as deck hand, for I couldn't eat and sleep with such a lot of men as they are. Besides I am not strong enough to handle heavy freight, and some of those sharp-eyed mates would certainly penetrate any disguise I might assume. If I pay my fare in the cabin, I shall run the same risks I would run in asking for a pass. 'Tony,' some inquisitive clerk would say, 'what are you doing this for? Why don't you go down on one of your father's boats, and then you could go for nothing?' I wish I was not so well known. If I only had money enough I would go by rail; but I have only enough to pay for my ticket, and I ought to have a little left to buy an outfit when I reach New Orleans. Dear me! I am always bothered about something."