“Come on, Bill,” said I, “I want to take passage on the next boat!”

Mr. Wisner kept us a long time, giving me letters to his partner; trying to find out how much money I would have when I got to Southport; warning me not to leave that neighborhood even if I found it hard to find the Rucker family; and assuring me that if it weren’t for the fact that he had several families along the canal ready to move in a week or two, he would go back with me and place himself at my service.

“And it won’t be long,” said he, “until I can be with you.  My boy, I feel like a father to the young men locating among us, and I beg of you don’t make any permanent arrangements until I get back.  I can save you money, and start you on the way to a life of wealth and happiness.  God bless you, and give you a safe voyage!”

“Bill,” said I, as we went down the stairs, “this is the best news I ever had.  I’m going to find my mother!  I had given up ever finding her, Bill; and I’ve been so lonesome—­you don’t know how lonesome I’ve been!”

“I used to have a mother,” said Bill, “in London.  Next time I’m there I’ll stay sober for a day and have a look about for her.  You never have but about one mother, do you, Jake?  A mother is a great thing—­when she ain’t in drink.”

“I wish I could have Mr. Wisner with me when I get to Southport,” I said.  “He’d help me.  He is such a Christian man!”

“Wal,” said Bill, “I ain’t as sure about him as I am about mothers.  He minds me of a skipper I served under once; and he starved us, and let the second officer haze us till we deserted and lost our wages.  He’s about twice too slick.  I’d give him the go-by, Jake.”

“And now for a boat,” I said.

“Wal,” said Bill, “I’m sailin’ to-morrow mornin’ on the schooner Mahala Peters, an’ we’re short-handed.  Go aboard an’ ship as an A. B.”

I protested that I wasn’t a sailor; but Bill insisted that beyond being hazed by the mate there was no reason why I shouldn’t work my passage.

“If there’s a crime,” said he, “it’s a feller like you payin’ his passage.  Let’s get a drink or two an’ go aboard.”

I explained to the captain, in order that I might be honest with him, that I was no sailor, but had worked on canal boats for years, and would do my best.  He swore at his luck in having to ship land-lubbers, but took me on; and before we reached Southport—­now Kenosha—­I was good enough so that he wanted me to ship back with him.  It was on this trip that I let the cook tattoo this anchor on my forearm, and thus got the reputation among the people of the prairies of having been a sailor, and therefore a pretty rough character.  As a matter of fact the sailors on the Lakes were no rougher than the canallers—­and I guess not so rough.