“He’s a dyin’!” gasped Scraggy.  “His pappy’s a hatin’ him!  Give him warm milk—­”

Again the yacht’s whistle shrieked hoarsely, drowning her last words.  As the stern of the little boat swung round, Scraggy read, stamped in black letters upon it: 

Harold Brimbecomb,
Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson,
new York.

The yacht shot away up the river, and was lost to the dull eyes that continued peering for a last glimpse of the phantom-like boat that had snatched her dying treasure from her.  Then, at last, the stricken woman turned, alone, to meet Lem Crabbe.

“Where’s that brat?” he demanded in a thick voice.

“I throwed him in the river,” declared the mother.  “He were dead.  Yer hook killed him, Lem.  He’s gone!”

“I’ll kill his mammy, too!” muttered Crabbe.  “Git ye here—­here—­down here—­on the floor!”

His throat worked painfully as he threw the threatening words at her; they mingled harshly with the snarling of the wind and the sonorous rumble of the river.  So great was Scraggy’s fright that she sped round the wooden table to escape the frenzied man.  Taking the steps in two bounds, she sprang to the deck like a cat, thence to the bank, and sped away into the rain, with Lem’s cries and curses ringing in her ears.

CHAPTER TWO

Five years later the Monarch was drawn up to the east bank of the Erie Canal at Syracuse.  It was past midnight, and with the exception of those on Lem Crabbe’s scow the occupants of all the long line of boats were sleeping.  Three men sat silently working in the living-room of the boat.  Lem Crabbe, Silent Lon Cronk, and his brother Eli, Cayuga Lake squatters, were the workers.  At one end of the room hung a broken iron kettle.  Into this Eli Cronk was dropping bits of gold which he cut from baubles taken from a basket.  Crabbe, his short legs drawn up under his body, held a pair of pliers in his left hand, while caught firmly in the hook was a child’s tiny pin.  From this he tore the small jewels, threw them into a tin cup, and passed the setting on to Eli.  The other man, taciturn and fierce, was flattening out by means of strong pressers several gold rings and bracelets.  The three had worked for many hours with scarcely a word spoken, with scarcely a recognition of one another.

Of a sudden Eli Cronk raised his head and said, “Lem, Scraggy was to Mammy’s t’other day.”

“I didn’t know ye’d been to Ithacy?” Lem made the statement a question.

“Yep, I went to see Mammy, and she says as how Scraggy’s pappy were dead, and as how the gal’s teched in here.”  His words were low, and he raised his forefinger to his head significantly.

“She ain’t allers a stayin’ in the squatter country nuther,” he pursued.  “She takes that damn ugly cat of her’n and scoots away for a time.  And none of ’em up there don’t know where she goes.  Hones’ Injun, don’t she never come about this here scow, Lem?”