“Nope!”

“Yep, and buried, too!  She fretted over the brats, and kep’ a sayin’ they was dead in the lake.  But I know they jest runned off some’ers.”

“I know it, too,” Lem grunted savagely.  “The gal didn’t have no likin’ for me.”

“I jest see Scraggy come hum,” ventured Lon.  “She’s been gone for a long while.  She were a comin’ down the tracks.”

Lem muttered a savage oath, and faced the scow preparatory to entering.  Looking back over his shoulder, he asked: 

“Be ye comin’ in, Lon?”

“Nope; I’m goin’ to bed.  Say, Lem, while ye was away, ye didn’t get ear of no good place to make a haul soon, did ye?”

“Yep; I tied up to Tarrytown goin’ down.  There be heaps of rich folks there.  Middy Burnes what runs the tug says as how there be a feller there richer than the devil....  Hell!  I’ve forgot his name!”

Lem halted on the gangplank and thought for a moment.

“Nope, I ain’t; I jest thought of it!...  Shellington!  That’s him, and he’s a fine house, and many’s the room filled with—­”

Lon broke in upon Lem with a growl: 

“Then we’ll separate him from some of his jewjaws.  I bet we has a little of his pile afore another month goes by!”

“That’s what I bet, too,” muttered Lem.  “Night, Lon.”

“Night,” repeated Lon, walking away.

* * * * *

Lem placed the lantern on the table and sat down to think.  Ever since the day Screech Owl had told him of the boy he had wounded so many years before his mind had worked constantly with the thought that he must find the home where his son was.  Scraggy was the only human being to tell him.  She must tell him!  He would make her, if he had to choke the woman to death to get her secret!  He remembered how she had mocked at him when she had told him that strange bit of news.  Realizing that Scraggy’s malady made her difficult to coerce, he decided to try cajolery at once.

Lent rose and took a bit of bread from the cupboard shelf.  He slipped it into a bag, caught up the lantern with his hook, and left the scow.  He halted in front of Scraggy’s dark hut and pounded on the door.  The cat, scrambling to the floor inside, was Lem’s answer.  He knocked again.

“Scraggy!  Scraggy!” he called.  “It be Lemmy!  Open the door!”

Through her deep sleep came the voice Screech Owl had loved, and still loved.  She sat up in bed, trembling violently, pushing back with a pathetic gesture the gray hair from her eyes.  She had been dreaming of Lem—­dreaming that she had heard his voice.  But black pussy couldn’t have dreamed also.  He was perched in the small window, lashing his great tail from side to side.  She slid from the bed, stretched out a bony hand, and clutched the cat.

“Did ye hear him, too, black pussy?”

“Scraggy!” called Lem again, “Open the door!  I brought you something to eat.”