low turned Water Street, narrow and muddy, while the
broad wharves and wooden storehouses spaced themselves at intervals
along the shore. Beyond, the sailing ships of all kinds that he had
admired that morning pointed their bowsprits along the docks or swung
at anchor along the river.

Chris looked down at the many vessels. He could not tell one from
another, but names began to drift into his mind from some forgotten
trip to a museum, or from the pages of a book read long ago. Frigate,
schooner, brigantine. Good ships all. The creak of rigging sounded in
the names, the harsh whip of salty winds, and the heart-lifting sight
of white sails cutting across blue water. Chris leaned on his arms,
his eyes shining. If he should ever go to sea in a sailing ship, what
a day that would be! And then he remembered that he must do so if he
were ever to obtain the fabulous Jewel Tree. All at once the dangers
of such a quest were terrifying, and Chris turned his thoughts away
from them to look at the view.

Where the city of Washington lay in his time were only woods and
marshlands. No Monument, no Lincoln Memorial, no houses. Lying in the
river like a great green ship, he could see the island which had once
belonged to his ancestor, George Mason. Once? Now it probably still
did. He could make out figures moving at the bank of it, and a ferry
pushing off from the shore.

[Illustration]

What fun this was! Chris gave a chuckle out loud. What a chance--to
see what once had been! He was enjoying himself increasingly as he
glanced down at the activity along the riverbanks.

[Illustration]

So close to noon, the sailors and stevedores had vanished to eat their
meal, and passers-by were few. The street was nearly deserted when
along the hardened muddy ruts of Water Street Chris heard a wailing
cry: "Pity the blind! Pity the pore blind!" The boy looked down, and
the drop below him to the road made his head swim, until he refused to
think of it. He saw below him a grotesque figure making its way,
turning its head toward the houses as it made its cry.

It was a hunchbacked man with a wooden peg leg and a crutch. Tied
crisscross over his snarled hair were two black eye patches. He was
unshaven and in a rare state of filth, his coat green with age and
speckled with greasy stains, the stocking on his one good leg
wrinkling down into his shoe, and his hands gnarled with long-nailed
fingers. Chris gave an involuntary shudder, but the sight