contempt for authority by helping himself over the sharp spikes with
the aid of a "No Trespassing" sign. The sickly odor of raw cotton came
floating to his nostrils from the open windows. He strolled to the
head of a transverse canal which sucked water from the main stream.
A sprawling tree shaded a foot-worn plank where an old man, with bent
shoulders and a withered face, trudged to and fro, clawing down into the
black waters with a huge rake. He was the rack-tender--it was his task
to keep the ribs of the guarding rack clear of the refuse that came
swirling down with the water, for flotsam, if allowed to lodge, might
filch some of the jealously guarded power away from the mighty turbines
which growled and grunted in the depths of the wheel-pits. With rake in
one hand and a long, barbed pole in the other the old man bent over the
bubbling torrent that the rack's teeth sucked hissingly between them.
Bits of wood, soggy paper, an old umbrella, all manner of stuff which
had been tossed into the canal by lazy folks up-stream, he raked and
pulled up and piled at the end of his foot-bridge.

"Hy, yi, old Pickaroon!" came a child's shrill voice from a mill window.
"There's a tramp under your tree."

The old man raised his head from his work at the rack.

"You must not come on dis place," he cried, with a strong
French-Canadian accent.

"Who says so?" inquired the stranger, putting his back against the tree
and stretching out his legs.

"I--Etienne Provancher."