determined to go west and seek my fortune; for I always felt that
canalling was, somehow, beneath what I wanted to do and become. The
packet swept past us, giving me a good deal the same glimpse into a
different sort of life that a deckhand on a freighter has when he gazes
at a liner ablaze with lights and echoing with music.

On the deck of the packet sat a group of people who were listening to a
tall stooped man, who seemed to be addressing them on some matter of
interest. There was something familiar in his appearance; and I kept my
eye on him as we went by.

As the boat passed swiftly astern, I saw that it was John Rucker.

He was better dressed than I had ever seen him; his beard was trimmed,
and he was the center of his group. He was talking to a hunchback--a
strange-looking person with a black beard. I wondered what had made such
a change in Rucker; but I was overjoyed at the thought that he was off
on a peddling trip, and that I should not meet him at home.

We floated along toward Tempe in a brighter world than I had known since
the time when I felt my bosom swell at the wearing of the new cap my
mother had made for me, the day when I, too young to be sad, had thrown
the clod over the stone fence as we went down to the great river to meet
John Rucker.

5

We tied up for the night some seven miles west of Tempe, but I could not
sleep. I felt that I must see my mother that night, and so I trudged
along the tow-path in the light of a young moon, which as I plodded on