It was only a little boy， singing in a shrill treble the seachantey which seamen sing the wide world over whenthey man the capstan bars and break the anchors out for“Frisco” port. It was only a little boy who had never seenthe sea， but two hundred feet beneath him rolled theSacramento. “Young” Jerry he was called， after “Old” Jerry，his father， from whom he had learned the song， as wellas received his shock of bright-red hair， his blue， dancingeyes， and his fair and inevitably freckled skin.
For Old Jerry had been a sailor， and had followed the seatill middle life， haunted always by the words of the ringingchantey. Then one day he had sung the song in earnest， inan Asiatic port， swinging and thrilling round the capstancirclewith twenty others. And at San Francisco he turnedhis back upon his ship and upon the sea， and went tobehold with his own eyes the banks of the Sacramento.
He beheld the gold， too， for he found employment atthe Yellow Dream mine， and proved of utmost usefulnessin rigging the great ore-cables across the river and twohundred feet above its surface.
After that he took charge of the cables and kept them inrepair， and ran them and loved them， and became himselfan indispensable fixture of the Yellow Dream mine. Then heloved pretty Margaret Kelly； but she had left him and YoungJerry， the latter barely toddling， to take up her last longsleep in the little graveyard among the great sober pines.
Old Jerry never went back to the sea. He remained byhis cables， and lavished upon them and Young Jerry all thelove of his nature. When evil days came to the Yellow-Dream， he still remained in the employ of the company aswatchman over the all but abandoned property.
But this morning he was not visible. Young Jerry onlywas to be seen， sitting on the cabin step and singing theancient chantey. He had cooked and eaten his breakfastall by himself， and had just come out to take a look at theworld. Twenty feet before him stood the steel drum roundwhich the endless cable worked. By the drum， snug andfast， was the ore-car. Following with his eyes the dizzyflight of the cables to the farther bank， he could see theother drum and the other car.
The contrivance was worked by gravity， the loaded carcrossing the river by virtue of its own weight， and at thesame time dragging the empty car back. The loaded carbeing emptied， and the empty car being loaded with moreore， the performance could be repeated—a performancewhich had been repeated tens of thousands of times sincethe day Old Jerry became the keeper of the cables.
Young Jerry broke off his song at the sound of approachingfootsteps. A tall， blue-shirted man， a rifle across the hollow ofhis arm， came out from the gloom of the pine-trees. It wasHall， watchman of the Yellow Dragon mine， the cables ofwhich spanned the Sacramento a mile farther up.
“Hello， younker！” was his greeting. “What you doin’ hereby your lonesome？”
“Oh， bachin’，” Jerry tried to answer unconcernedly， as ifit were a very ordinary sort of thing. “Dad’s away， you see.”
“Where’s he gone？” the man asked.
“San Francisco. Went last night. His brother’s dead inthe old country， and he’s gone down to see the lawyers.
Won’t be back till tomorrow night.”
So spoke Jerry， and with pride， because of the responsibilitywhich had fallen to him of keeping an eye on the propertyof the Yellow Dream， and the glorious adventure of livingalone on the cliff above the river and of cooking his ownmeals.
“Well， take care of yourself，” Hall said， “and don’tmonkey with the cables. I’m goin’ to see if I can’t pick upa deer in the Cripple Cow Caòon.”
“It’s goin’ to rain， I think，” Jerry said， with maturedeliberation.
“And it’s little I mind a wettin’，” Hall laughed， as hestrode away among the trees.
Jerry’s prediction concerning rain was more than fulfilled.
By ten o’clock the pines were swaying and moaning， thecabin windows rattling， and the rain driving by in fiercesqualls. At half past eleven he kindled a fire， and promptlyat the stroke of twelve sat down to his dinner.
No out-of-doors for him that day， he decided， whenhe had washed the few dishes and put them neatly away；and he wondered how wet Hall was and whether he hadsucceeded in picking up a deer.
At one o’clock there came a knock at the door， andwhen he opened it a man and a woman staggered in onthe breast of a great gust of wind. They were Mr. and Mrs.
Spillane， ranchers， who lived in a lonely valley a dozenmiles back from the river.
“Where’s Hall？” was Spillane’s opening speech， and hespoke sharply and quickly.
Jerry noted that he was nervous and abrupt in hismovements， and that Mrs. Spillane seemed laboring undersome strong anxiety. She was a thin， washed-out， workedoutwoman， whose life of dreary and unending toil hadstamped itself harshly upon her face. It was the same lifethat had bowed her husband’s shoulders and gnarled hishands and turned his hair to a dry and dusty gray.
“He’s gone hunting up Cripple Cow，” Jerry answered.
“Did you want to cross？”
The woman began to weep quietly， while Spillanedropped a troubled exclamation and strode to the window.
Jerry joined him in gazing out to where the cables lostthemselves in the thick downpour.
It was the custom of the backwoods people in thatsection of country to cross the Sacramento on the YellowDragon cable. For this service a small toll was charged，which tolls the Yellow Dragon Company applied to thepayment of Hall’s wages.
“We’ve got to get across， Jerry，” Spillane said， at the sametime jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the directionof his wife. “Her father’s hurt at the Clover Leaf. Powderexplosion. Not expected to live. We just got word.”
Jerry felt himself fluttering inwardly. He knew thatSpillane wanted to cross on the Yellow Dream cable，and in the absence of his father he felt that he dared notassume such a responsibility， for the cable had never beenused for passengers； in fact， had not been used at all for along time.
