es of his position. Then, after a hasty and economical
meal at a lunch counter near the water-front, he made haste to the
pier, where his attention was at once riveted on an Old Dominion
Liner, which was just backing out into the river. He watched the great
bulk, fascinated, while it turned, and moved away down the harbor, to
vanish beyond Sewall's Point, on its way toward Hampton Roads.
Immediately afterward, his attention was attracted to a much smaller
steamer, which drew in on the opposite side of the wharf. There
chanced to be no one else near, and, as the boat slid into the slip, a
man in the bow hurled a coil of rope toward Zeke, with an aim so
accurate that it fell across Zeke's shoulder.

"Don't dodge it, you lubber!" the man roared, in answer to the
mountaineer's instinctive movement. "Haul it in, an' make fast to the
punchin'."

Zeke obeyed readily enough, hauled in the hawser, and made the loop
fast over the piling. At the same moment, he saw two negroes, blacker
from soot and grime than nature had made them, who leaped down from
the deck, and scampered out of sight. He heard the captain in the
pilot-house shouting down the tube.

"There go your----nigger stokers on the run."

Zeke could both see and hear the man in the engine-room, who vowed
profanely that he would ship a pair of white men, to sail before ten
that night. It seemed to the listener that the situation might develop
to his advantage. When, presently, the captain descended to the dock,
Zeke made bold to accost that red-faced and truculent-appearing
person. Much to his surprise, his request for work met with an amiable
reply. The captain verified what Zeke already knew, that the engineer
had need of men, and bade the inquirer get aboard and offer himself.

In the engine-room, the harried chief scowled on the intruder.

"What the devil do you want?" he cried harshly.

But Zeke's purpose was too earnest to be put down by mere
ungraciousness.

"Work," he replied with a smile.

Something in the applicant's aspect mitigated the engineer's
asperity.

"Ever fire a boiler?" he questioned, more affably.

"Yes, an' no," Zeke answered; "not any real steam b'iler. But, when
hit comes to keepin' a hick'ry fire under a copper kittle, an' not
scorchin' the likker, wall, I 'lows as how I kin do hit. An' when it
comes to makin' o' sorghum m'lasses, I hain't never tuk off my hat to
nobody yit. Fer the keepin' o' proper temp'rature folks says, I'm
'b