The Wolf Among Us

The shabby old motor boat moved slowly up the river towing an equally shabby old barge. Dilapidated and unpainted as the hull was, the engine was well muffled—suspiciously well muffled—and the disreputable looking craft moved through the water with all the noiseless dignity of a yacht.

A ferry-boat paused midway of the long tow rope and its commuters, crowded on the forward deck, watched this slow-moving procession with some show of annoyance. Not a few impatient remarks rose loud and clear above the hum of the restless crowd, directed at the head of a man seated in the stern of the boat, calmly puffing on a pipe. Aft on the barge, a young boy was wrestling heroically with the tiller, trying to keep the lumbering hulk head on.

8

Slowly they crawled upstream. On their left was the precipitous Jersey shore, and on their right the towering buildings of the great city. Over the water the late afternoon sun spread a warm, mellow glow and touched with gold the myriad windows of the clustering skyscrapers across the river.

The man knocked out his pipe with calm deliberation and turned his wide, gray eyes to the lofty Palisades, now bathed in a dazzling crimson. Then slowly his glance wandered back to where the shimmering light fell across the little shanty on the barge and picked out in hold relief the incongruously new and shining letters, Minnie M. Baxter.

A smile lighted up his lined, weary features, a smile of pride in ownership.

“She ain’t so bad fer the old battle-axe that she is, hey Skippy?” he called to the boy.

The boy’s tousled head appeared from around the battered cabin.

“I’ll say she ain’t, Pop,” he answered. “An’ she’s ours! Gee, I can’t believe my pop really an’ truly owns a whole barge!”

The man laughed, then listened for a moment to a significant sound emanating from the muffled engine.

“That there front cylinder’s missin’ agin, Skippy,” he shouted. “Loop ’er in that there ring; the tide’s runnin’ out now so she’ll stand upstream. Set ’er even ’n’ come aboard here.”

9

The boy nodded obediently and with an end of rope fastened the old tiller to a rusty ring. Then, hurrying forward, he jumped into the water and grasping the taut tow line, pulled himself hand over hand and scrambled over the stern of the launch.

The father put out a large, work-worn hand and helped him in with a tenderness that was surprising in one so rough and uncouth looking.

“Gimme that there shirt and them shoes while I hang ’em near the engine,” he said, his voice soft with affection. “Ye’ll be gettin’ a bad throat agin.” He made no demand for the boy’s trousers, which were the only other article of apparel that the little fellow wore.

Having spread the clothing to dry and adjusted the rebellious motor, the man returned to the stern. He relighted his pipe and sat down with an arm about his son.

“I’ll steer her fer a while, Pop,” said Skippy.

For a few minutes there was silence.

“Yer glad we’re goin’ straight?” the man asked with a sudden move of his arm on the boy’s shoulder.

Skippy’s eyes widened and he looked up at his parent, hesitantly.

10

“I mean yer glad we’re goin’ straight—in a straight racket, I mean? Now there ain’t goin’ to be no more worry about coppers. I won’t care if they’re floatin’ all over the harbor an’ I won’t be worryin’ about no pinches. A man don’t ever think uv bein’ pinched when his racket’s on the up and up. An’ that’s me from now on. I said when I got three hunderd saved I’d buy a barge an’ not touch no more shady rackets. An’ I have! Three hunderd—every penny we had in the world, sonny, I paid Josiah Flint fer the Minnie M. Baxter. She’s worth every dime uv it.”

Skippy nodded gravely.