engine-room, where he can change his wet things. Don Blossom, be quiet,
sir! Aren't you ashamed of yourself!" Then, turning to Winn with a
cheery smile, she said, "We are very sorry for your accident, and should
like to know all about it after you are dry again. If you will go with
Solon to the engine-room, he will do everything he can for you."

The Captain had already hastened away on his quest for dry clothing. As
he left the room, Winn noticed that he had a wooden leg. It was not one
of the modern kind, so carefully constructed as to closely resemble the
real article, but an old-fashioned, iron-shod stick of timber strapped to
his right knee.

As Sabella finished speaking, she too left the room, running after the
Captain, and smiling cheerfully as she went at the mud-streaked boy, who
still stood speechless and motionless in the doorway.

Now, at Solon's invitation he followed the negro into what had been
called the engine-room, though to Winn's eye it looked as little like an
engine-room as any place he had ever known. At one side was a
horse-power treadmill, such as he had often seen used for the sawing of
wood. Half of it was sunk below the level of the deck, and covered with
a removable floor. It was geared in the most direct and simple manner to
a shaft that disappeared through the rear wall of the room, and
presumably connected with the stern wheel he had previously noticed.
There was also a belt extending to a shaft pulley overhead, but beyond
this there was no trace of machinery, nor was there either boiler or
furnace. There was what looked like a stall at one end of the room, but
it contained only bales of hay and sacks of oats.

"Yes, sah, we uses a mewel-ingine when we hab um. We hain't got no mewel
at de present time, but we 'specs ter contrac' fer one shortly,"
explained the negro, noting Winn's inquiring glances, as he assisted him
to remove his wet garments.

Before the boy had a chance to ask the questions that were at his
tongue's end, he, as well as the other occupants of the boat, was
startled by a loud hail from the river.

"Hello! What steamer is that?"

"The _Whatnot_, of Dubuque," was the answer.

"Do you know the Sheriff of Dubuque County?"

"Who--Riley? Yes, I know him."

"Do you know his skiff?"

"As well as I know my own boat, for I built it."

"Have you seen it pass down the river to-day, containing only a boy
between sixteen and seventeen years old?"

"No.