ing squarely toward the scow.
Pushing out a dark, rusty, steel hook over which swung a ragged
coat-sleeve, he displayed the stump of a short arm.

As the woman appeared at the bow of the boat with a long stick on the
end of which hung a bucket, Lem Crabbe wound the reins about the steel
hook and took the proffered pail in the fingers of his left hand.

"Ye drink too much whisky, Lem," called the woman. "Ye've had as many as
twenty swigs today. Ye'll get no more till we reaches the dock--see?"

To this Lem did not reply. His shrewd eyes traveled up and down the
girlish figure in evil meaning. His thick lips opened, and the swarthy
cheeks went awry in a grimace. Before the hideous spasm of his silent
merriment the woman who loved him paled, and turned away with a shudder.
She slouched down the short flight of steps, and the man, with a grin,
malicious and cunning, lifted the tin pail to his lips.

"It's time for her to go," he muttered as he wiped his mouth, "it's time
for her to go! Git back here, Scraggy, and take this 'ere drink cup!"

This time the woman appeared with a fat baby in her arms. Mechanically
she unloosened the pail from the bent nail on the end of the pole and
put it down, watching the man as he unwound the reins from the hook.
Again the long-eared animals stretched their muscles at his hoarse
command. He paid no more attention to the woman, who, seated on a pile
of planks, was eying the square end of the boat. She drew a plaid shawl
close up under the baby's chin and threaded her listless fingers through
his dark curls. Scraggy's thin hair was drawn back from her wan face,
and her narrow shoulders were bowed with burdens too heavy for her
years; but she hugged the little creature sleeping on her breast, and
still kept her eyes upon the scene. Beyond she could see the smoke
rising from the buildings in the city of Albany, where they were to draw
the boat up for the night. On each side of the river bank, behind clumps
of trees, stood the mansions of those men for whom, according to Scraggy
Peterson's belief, the world had been made. Finally her gaze dropped to
the scow, where little rivers of water made crooked paths across the
deck. Piles of planks reared high at her back, and edged the scow with
the squareness of a room. Scraggy knew that hauling lumber was but the
cover for a darker trade. Yet as she glanced at the stolid, indifferent
man trudging behind the mules a lovelight sprang into her eyes.