y in the little Western river town who could
get out went out and stayed out.

Men and women, boys and girls, and even little children, ran to the
river-bank: and, once there, they stayed, with no thought, it seemed,
of going back to their homes or their work.

The people of the town were wild with excitement, and everybody told
everybody else what had happened, although everybody knew all about
it already. Everybody, I mean, except Joe Lambert, and he had been so
busy ever since daylight, sawing wood in Squire Grisard's woodshed,
that he had neither seen nor heard anything at all. Joe was the
poorest person in the town. He was the only boy there who really had
no home and nobody to care for him. Three or four years before
this March morning, Joe had been left an orphan, and being utterly
destitute, he should have been sent to the poorhouse, or "bound out"
to some person as a sort of servant. But Joe Lambert had refused to go
to the poorhouse or to become a bound boy. He had declared his ability
to take care of himself, and by working hard at odd jobs, sawing
wood, rolling barrels on the wharf, picking apples or weeding onions
as opportunity offered, he had managed to support himself "after a
manner," as the village people said. That is to say, he generally got
enough to eat, and some clothes to wear. He slept in a warehouse shed,
the owner having given him leave to do so on condition that he would
act as a sort of watchman on the premises.

Joe Lambert alone of all the villagers knew nothing of what had
happened; and of course Joe Lambert did not count for anything in the
estimation of people who had houses to live in. The only reason I have
gone out of the way to make an exception of so unimportant a person
is, that I think Joe did count for something on that particular March
day at least.

When he finished the pile of wood that he had to saw, and went to the
house to get his money, he found nobody there. Going down the street
he found the town empty, and, looking down a cross street, he saw the
crowds that had gathered on the river-bank, thus learning at last that
something unusual had occurred. Of course he ran to the river to learn
what it was.

When he got there he learned that Noah Martin the fisherman who was
also the ferryman between the village and its neighbor on the other
side of the river, had been drowned during the early morning in a
foolish attempt to row his ferry skiff across the stream. The ice