“I forgot to mention,” says the foreman, “that Cap’n Ambuster was in, this morning, to see you.  He says, that, if the river’s clear enough for him to get away from our dock, he’ll go down to the City to-morrow, and offers to take freight cheap.  We might put that new walking-beam, we’ve just rough-finished for the ‘Union,’ aboard of him.”

“Yes,—­if he is sure to go to-morrow.  It will not do to delay.  The owners complained to me yesterday that the ‘Union’ was in a bad way for want of its new machinery.  Tell your brother-in-law to come here, Bill.”

Tarbox looked sheepishly pleased, and summoned Perry Purtett.

“Run down, Perry,” said Wade, “to the ‘Ambuster,’ and ask Captain Isaac to step up here a moment.  Tell him I have some freight to send by him.”

Perry moved through the Foundry with his usual jaunty step, left his dignity at the door, and ran off to the dock.

The weather had grown fitful.  Heavy clouds whirled over, trailing snow-flurries.  Rarely the sun found a cleft in the black canopy to shoot a ray through and remind the world that he was still in his place and ready to shine when he was wanted.

Master Perry had a furlong to go before he reached the dock.  He crossed the stream, kept unfrozen by the warm influences of the Foundry.  He ran through a little dell hedged on each side by dull green cedars.  It was severely cold now, and our young friend condescended to prance and jump over the ice-skimmed puddles to keep his blood in motion.

The little rusty, pudgy steamboat lay at the down-stream side of the Foundry wharf.  Her name was so long and her paddle-box so short, that the painter, beginning with ambitious large letters, had been compelled to abbreviate the last syllable.  Her title read thus:—­

I. AMBUSTER.

Certainly a formidable inscription for a steamboat!

When she hove in sight, Perry halted, resumed his stately demeanor, and em-barked as if he were a Doge entering a Bucentaur to wed a Sea.

There was nobody on deck to witness the arrival and salute the magnifico.

Perry looked in at the Cap’n’s office.  He beheld a three-legged stool, a hacked desk, an inky steel-pen, an inkless inkstand; but no Cap’n Ambuster.

Perry inspected the Cap’n’s state-room.  There was a cracked looking-glass, into which he looked; a hair-brush suspended by the glass, which he used; a lair of blankets in a berth, which he had no present use for; and a smell of musty boots, which nobody with a nose could help smelling.  Still no Captain Ambuster, nor any of his crew.

Search in the unsavory kitchen revealed no cook, coiled up in a corner, suffering nightmares for the last greasy dinner he had brewed in his frying-pan.  There were no deck hands bundled into their bunks.  Perry rapped on the chain-box and inquired if anybody was within, and nobody answering, he had to ventriloquize a negative.