“What’s them?” he asked.

“Lightnin’-rods,” said Tom, and Chad understood, for the school-master had told him about them back in the mountains.  Was there anything that Caleb Hazel had not told him?  The haze over the town was now visible, and soon they swept past tall chimneys puffing out smoke, great warehouses covered on the outside with weather-brown tin, and, straight ahead—­Heavens, what a bridge!—­arching clear over the river and covered like a house, from which people were looking down on them as they swept under.  There were the houses, in two rows on the streets, jammed up against each other and without any yards.  And people!  Where had so many people come from?  Close to the river and beyond the bridge was another great mansion, with tall pillars, about it was a green yard, as smooth as a floor, and negroes and children were standing on the outskirting stone wall and looking down at them as they floated by.  And another great house still, and a big garden with little paths running through it and more patches of that strange green grass.  Was that bluegrass?  It was, but it didn’t look blue and it didn’t look like any other grass Chad had ever seen.  Below this bridge was another bridge, but not so high, and, while Chad looked, another black monster on wheels went crashing over it.

Tom and the school-master were working the raft slowly to the shore now, and, a little farther down, Chad could see more rafts tied up—­rafts, rafts, nothing but rafts on the river, everywhere!  Up the bank a mighty buzzing was going on, amid a cloud of dust, and little cars with logs on them were shooting about amid the gleamings of many saws, and, now and then, a log would leap from the river and start up toward that dust-cloud with two glistening iron teeth sunk in one end and a long iron chain stretching up along a groove built of boards—­and Heaven only knew what was pulling it up.  On the bank was a stout, jolly-looking man, whose red, kind face looked familiar to Chad, as he ran down shouting a welcome to the Squire.  Then the raft slipped along another raft, Tom sprang aboard it with the grape-vine cable, and the school-master leaped aboard with another cable from the stern.

“Why, boy,” cried the stout man.  “Where’s yo’ dog?” Then Chad recognized him, for he was none other than the cattle-dealer who had given him Jack.

“I left him at home.”

“Is he all right?”

“Yes—­I reckon.”

“Then I’d like to have him back again.”

Chad smiled and shook his head.

“Not much.”

“Well, he’s the best sheep-dog on earth.”

The raft slowed up, creaking—­slower—­straining and creaking, and stopped.  The trip was over, and the Squire had made his “record,” for the red-faced man whistled incredulously when the old man told him what day he had left Kingdom Come.