withered face, trudged to and fro, clawing down into the
black waters with a huge rake. He was the rack-tender--it was his task
to keep the ribs of the guarding rack clear of the refuse that came
swirling down with the water, for flotsam, if allowed to lodge, might
filch some of the jealously guarded power away from the mighty turbines
which growled and grunted in the depths of the wheel-pits. With rake in
one hand and a long, barbed pole in the other the old man bent over the
bubbling torrent that the rack's teeth sucked hissingly between them.
Bits of wood, soggy paper, an old umbrella, all manner of stuff which
had been tossed into the canal by lazy folks up-stream, he raked and
pulled up and piled at the end of his foot-bridge.

"Hy, yi, old Pickaroon!" came a child's shrill voice from a mill window.
"There's a tramp under your tree."

The old man raised his head from his work at the rack.

"You must not come on dis place," he cried, with a strong
French-Canadian accent.

"Who says so?" inquired the stranger, putting his back against the tree
and stretching out his legs.

"I--Etienne Provancher."

"And I--my worthy alien--I am Walker Farr from Nowhere. Now that we have
been properly introduced I will sit here and rest. I am here because I
love the soothing sound of babbling waters on a hot day. Go about your
work. I'll watch you. I love surprises. Who knows what next you'll draw
forth from the depths of fate?

"I can have you arrest!" cried the old man.

The uninvited guest took off his broad-brimmed hat, laid it across
his knees, and ran his hand through his shock of brown hair; it curled
damply over his forehead and, behind, reached down nearly to his
coat-collar, hiding his tanned neck. In some men that length of hair
might have seemed affectation. It gave this man, as he sat there
uncovered, that touch of the unusual which separates the person
of strong individuality from the mere mob. Then he smiled on old
Etienne--such a warm, radiant, compelling, disarming sort of smile that
the rack-tender turned to his work again, muttering. His mouth twitched
and the crinkles in his withered face deepened.

Walker Farr found a comfortable indentation in the tree-trunk and
settled his head there.

"How much do you get a week for doing that, Etienne?" he inquired, with
cool assurance.

The old man glance sideways sharply, but the smile won him.

"Six dollaire."

"After supporting your family, what do you do