“Here?” Alexander asked. “On the boat?”
Dutch nodded and picked up one of the trunks. “Yep, here in the cargo hold. Don’t want to be caught loafing.” He stacked the trunk he was carrying, and then took another trunk from Chicks and added it to the stack.
“We’ll help,” Jack said, grabbing a trunk. “What should we do?”
“Stack all the trunks up and tie ’em so they stay in place,” Finn said. “That’s what we were told to do. The fellow givin’ orders said we needed to make more space in the luggage hold by tonight.”
“That’s odd,” Frances said. She remembered a sign on the ticket window in Hannibal that said EXPRESS PASSAGE TO ST. LOUIS. She knew it meant the boat wouldn’t be making any more stops. “We’re going straight to St. Louis. We’ll be there tomorrow. Why would they need room tonight?”
Owney shrugged and tugged at a thread on his trousers. “Beats me.”
All nine of them began to work together, stacking trunks and tying them with rope, securing them to iron rings that were fastened to the deck. Some of the trunks weren’t very heavy, and the older boys could stack them all the way to the ceiling.
“At least this work isn’t too hard,” Jack remarked to the boys. “Compared to those other places you’ve been.”
“That’s true,” Finn said. But even though Frances had noticed Finn was the one who smiled the most, his face was solemn now. “Only thing is . . .” he began, but his voice trailed off.
His brother finished. “Only thing is, we’re on our way to another factory. And we heard it’s even worse than the ones from before. In fact . . . folks say it’s the worst place of all.”
What could be worse than a place where you get burned by hot glass? Frances thought.
“It’s a cannery,” Owney said, bringing his voice down to a near whisper. “For packing things in tin cans. Sardines, tomatoes. My cousin was there. Says everything is scalding hot and it stinks of fish. You cut fish up all day and brine it, and your hands get all cut and sore from the salt.” He looked down at his hands, then rolled his sleeve back down over the scar on his arm.
“Adolphius Canning, the place is called,” Dutch continued. “And the fellow who owns it is on board! He’s the boss of everyone!”
Frances nearly stopped breathing. She looked over at Jack. He had been standing on one of the benches tying down one of the taller stacks. But he had frozen the sound of the name.
It was Alexander who finally spoke. “Edwin Adolphius?”
Eli’s eyes had gone wide with recognition. “Isn’t that the man you were talking about, Frances? The one Miss DeHaven was going to send you to?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Jack still hadn’t moved. “He’s here, on this boat?”
“You didn’t know?” Chicks asked. “But you saw him on the docks, same as we did. He walked right by us.”
It was the man with the black and silver beard, Frances realized. The one with the fine suit and the smug smile who’d strolled past just before they’d boarded. “But I don’t understand,” she said. “What’s he doing here?”
“That’s the worst part,” Finn said. “This whole place belongs to Edwin Adolphius! This is his steamboat.”
One of the trunks that Jack had been trying to tie down slipped off the stack just then and hit the deck. To Frances it sounded like a clap of thunder—bam!—from a storm that was suddenly much too close.
9
A CERTAIN FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER
The steamer trunk lay on its side where it had fallen. The brass lock swung loose and the lid had pulled open.
“If that thing’s broken we’ll get a thrashing for sure,” Dutch said, a nervous edge in his voice.
“It’s my fault,” Jack said as he stepped down from the bench and set the trunk proper. “So I’m the only one who ought to be thrashed.”
Owney had come over to help. “Well, today’s your lucky day,” he said, nudging the trunk with his bare foot and looking under the lid. “It ain’t broken. What’s more, it ain’t even got nothing in it.”
Jack blinked in surprise. “Really?” But sure enough, he peered inside and the trunk was indeed completely empty.
“I thought some of those trunks felt awfully light,” Eli said.
Finn nodded and picked up one of the other trunks nearby. “A whole lot of them over here in this corner feel like they’re empty, too. Like this one.” He slammed it down on the ground and it made a loud but hollow noise.
“Quit throwing those things!” Dutch snapped. “Do you want to get in trouble?”
Suddenly Chicks leapt down from the bench he’d been standing on. “Someone’s coming!” he hissed.
Jack heard footsteps along the deck, coming closer. But they weren’t the sort of heavy noise made by boots. They were hard little taps instead.
Owney and Frances stood on their toes to peek over one of the stacks of trunks at the person who was approaching.
“Ugh,” Owney said, rolling his eyes. “It’s her.”
“It’s her,” Frances repeated, stunned. Then she turned and her eyes met Jack’s. “Quick, hide!”
Dutch and the other boys looked confused. “Huh?” Dutch muttered.
“We have to hide!” she gasped. “Now!” She reached for Harold and grabbed his wrist, and they scurried between two stacks of trunks until they were out of sight. Alexander seemed to understand, too, and he went in after them. Jack wasn’t sure he understood, but he motioned for Eli to follow him and Alexander.
“What’s going on?” Eli whispered as they crawled into the dark space behind the trunks.
Jack couldn’t answer. He could only put his finger to his lips to indicate be quiet. But it was anything but quiet inside his head. It can’t possibly be her, he thought. It can’t be! Yet Jack figured there could be only one reason why Frances would look so scared.
“How can she be here?” he said under his breath.
“Who?” Eli asked.
Just then Jack heard a voice speaking to the older boys. A voice that he knew could be sweet sounding but could also be flat and cruel and cold. . . .
“I suppose you boys are enjoying your little journey.”
Miss DeHaven.
Jack peeked out to get a better view—it really was her! She stood next to the deck railing in the late afternoon sunlight. She was more elegantly dressed than he’d ever seen her—her shoulders were bare, and she was wearing a fancy black gown with beads and scalloped trimmings that reminded Jack of serpents’ scales.
She was one of the finely dressed passengers who traveled on the upper decks, Jack realized. Why did she come down here?
Frances and Alexander had found places alongside Jack to peek out at the scene just beyond their hiding spot.
Miss DeHaven looked the older boys up and down. “With all this racket,” she told them, “it would seem that you’re enjoying the trip a little too much.”
“S-sorry, ma’am,” Finn stammered.
Jack couldn’t see his face from where he was hiding, but his shoulders were tense and he stood as if frozen in place. All the boys looked on edge.
“‘Sorry, ma’am,’” replied Miss DeHaven in a sneering imitation of Finn. “Spoken like a servant boy! Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”
Finn reminded silent, though he nodded.
“The rest of you,” Miss DeHaven continued, “appear too lowborn for that sort of work. But happily, we have found suitable positions for all of you, you know.”
The four older boys were looking down at their feet now. Jack sensed that they’d had to endure Miss DeHaven before.
“And this time it better work out,” she said. “No more getting yourself into clumsy little predicaments to shirk your duties.”
As she spoke, she looked over at Owney, who rubbed his scarred arm self-
consciously.
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled.
A bell clanged from the upper decks, and Miss DeHaven smirked and gathered the skirt of her fine gown. “So delightful to have this visit,” she said, her voice becoming more silvery and musical, as if she was suddenly someone else.
Her shoes tapped along the deck and then up the iron steps to the next deck above them. Jack listened hard until he couldn’t hear them any more.
“You can come out now,” Owney called.
Alexander was the first one to emerge. “You know Miss DeHaven?” he asked the older boys incredulously.
“She was on our orphan train,” Jack added.
“Is that what her name is?” Dutch said. “She started showing up at the glass factory saying she had to ‘check on us.’ At first we all thought that meant she cared or something. . . .”
“But all she would do was go on and on about hard work and how lucky we were to be working,” Finn added.
“She’s the worst,” said Owney. “Even if she is awful pretty.”
Harold shook his head. “She’s awful awful.”
The older boys laughed. “Ha, she sure is!” Chicks said with a snicker.
“What are you laughing at?” Alexander said, his voice suddenly icy. “This isn’t a joke. Miss DeHaven is our enemy. I can’t believe anyone would ever think she’s pretty.” He was pacing around the deck, his hands clenching. Keep your head, Jack wanted to tell him.
“Settle down, buddy,” Finn warned.
“Besides,” Dutch said, grinning at Frances. “We never said she was prettier than Queenie over here.”
Frances choked back a laugh and swatted Dutch’s arm. “Quit calling me Queenie!” she said, though Jack suspected she didn’t much mind at all.
“Yeah, quit calling her that, all of you!” Alexander sputtered at the older boys. “Leave her alone!”
Uh-oh, Jack thought.
“They’re not bothering me, Alexander,” Frances said pointedly.
“Well, you shouldn’t talk to them!” he snapped, his face getting redder. “How do you know they’re really on our side and not Miss DeHaven’s? That they’re not just telling us some story?”
Owney’s eyes flashed. “We ain’t lying, if that’s what you mean!”
“Alexander, you’re being ridiculous!” Frances fired back. “And don’t you dare tell me who I should or shouldn’t talk to!”
She turned around abruptly, her back to Alexander.
Jack stepped in between them. “Alex,” he said, his voice low. “Just calm down.”
But Alexander just stomped off in the opposite direction. He turned a corner and disappeared.
Finn nodded. “Looks like someone needs to cool his stew.”
Frances glanced at Jack. “Should we go after him?”
Jack shook his head. “We ought to leave him alone for now. Let him think.”
But, Jack thought, he’s not the only one with a lot on his mind.
10
A LITTLE TASTE OF CALIFORNIA
What kind of a name is “Chicks”? Alexander thought to himself. Or “Owney”? He paced back and forth on the deck.
He’d come all the way over to the other side of the Addie Dauphin to clear his head, but it was no use: His head was still too full of annoying questions, like, What kind of fool would name a kid “Dutch?” and, Is Dutch even Dutch? Alexander also wondered what country the Dutch came from. He wondered if he was supposed to have learned that in school. He wondered if Frances knew.
He paced back and forth some more, then he stood and watched the great big paddle wheel that churned up water in back of the boat. It went around and around like the thoughts in his head.
The thing he wondered the most was: What if Frances likes them better than me? That was the worst question of all. He couldn’t believe she didn’t mind when those older boys called her “Queenie” and “Your Majesty.” Once, back at the Careys’ farm, he’d called her “Fancy,” just as a joke, and she’d kicked him in the shin. What did those boys have that he didn’t have? At least he had all his teeth, he thought, unlike that Finn kid. . . .
A steady breeze was blowing across the deck. His face had been too angry-hot to notice it at first, but now it felt cool and gentle. Alexander unclenched his hands and stretched his arms. He was beginning to feel better, in a mood to explore, even, so when he saw a short ladder leading up to another cargo hold, he climbed it and peered in at the rows of barrels and boxes.
He caught glimpses of bright yellow between the slats of some of the crates. No, not yellow—a deeper color. He went to get a closer look. Could they be? He could smell them—a perfumey scent that was sweet and sharp. He tugged at the crate slats until he found a loose one and pulled it forward, and then he could see for sure.
Oranges! One of them rolled out and fell right into his hand. It was fresh and peeled easily. Alexander broke off a section of the delicious fruit and popped it into his mouth.
“It has to be a sign,” he said under his breath. A sign, he thought, that they would make it out west. Hadn’t he’d been promising oranges in California to the citizens of Wanderville?
He pulled two more oranges free from the crates and stuffed them in the sleeves of his jacket. Wait till everyone sees these, he thought. Especially Frances. She’d be so happy and remember that he was the one who first built Wanderville. And she’d forget those boys. As Alexander climbed back down the cargo ladder he was in such good spirits he felt like he could just leap off the last step and keep walking on air.
As he started to make his way back to the luggage hold where his friends were, he passed a set of narrow stairs, which gave him another idea: Why not get a peek of the deck above and tell the others about it? The upper decks had to be grander. Maybe there was even some more food up there he could liberate. Oranges weren’t enough for a full meal, after all. He crept up the stairs carefully so as not to make noise and tiptoed down a narrow passageway.
The passage ended at a great, long parlor that smelled of both cigar smoke and perfume. The polished woodwork gleamed, and there were ferns in brass vases and a thick Oriental carpet on the floor. Alexander’s footsteps were silent as he trod on it, and for a moment it made him feel like he’d become a ghost. But he knew that here, more than ever, he’d have to be careful to escape notice. All the finely dressed passengers were in this section—portly men gathered around card tables, the chairs and divans filled with women who fanned themselves or gazed out the windows. The sky above the riverbank was turning pink—it must have been early evening—and Alexander supposed everyone was dressed for dinner.
He found a tall chair to stand behind. There was no use hiding in this room, but the top of the chair came almost to his shoulders and he could conceal his worn, dusty jacket. The trick to being in places like this, Alexander knew, was to act like he was supposed to be there. He’d done the same thing back at the mercantile in Kansas where he’d taken things that Wanderville needed. Nothing to it, he thought.
He glanced around and spotted a platter of jam sandwiches that had been cut into tiny triangles. He knew he’d be able to slip a few of those into his sleeve, if he could just make his way over. . . .
Just then a voice seemed to rise up over the murmur of the crowd.
“But of course, dear Edwin. It would be a lovely excursion!”
Alexander tried not to shudder. Miss DeHaven was just a few feet away!
She sat at a little table next to the bearded man, the one they’d seen at the dock. The man the older boys said was Edwin Adolphius. Miss DeHaven had just called him Edwin, too.
Alexander’s mind raced. The chair that he stood behind was made of painted wicker, with a high, latticed back like a screen. He slowly moved the chair so that its back was to Miss DeHaven’s table, and then he sat down. The chair was tall enough to completely hide him, but whe
n he turned his head to the side he could peer out through the little openings in the latticework. He could see them both now: Mr. Adolphius was pouring a drink for Miss DeHaven—some kind of amber cordial served in tiny little glasses shaped like tulips—and bragging about his motorcar.
“Let me tell you, it drives so smooth that they say a lady could take the wheel. Why, I’ll even let you try!” Mr. Adolphius declared. Alexander could tell he was the kind of man who never noticed that his voice was always just a bit too loud.
“Perhaps I shall,” Miss DeHaven replied. “I hope it won’t be too difficult.”
Alexander suspected that Miss DeHaven was more clever than Mr. Adolphius, who tried to act refined but was really sort of coarse, and that she was trying to humor him.
“Won’t be hard at all, Miss Lillian!” Mr. Adolphius replied. “After all, you sure know how to handle those charity cases! Those boys are uncorkable, but a year or two of cannery packing will shut them right up.”
“I think you mean incorrigible, Edwin. Not uncorkable,” said Miss DeHaven. “And don’t forget to call it an industrial school instead of a cannery. Because are they not learning to be industrious, these wretched boys? Educating themselves about the rigors of work while they have the great privilege of helping you?” She picked up her glass and sipped it.
Edwin Adolphius grinned. “I like how you say that!” he boomed. “Industrial school sure sounds better than packing tins with fish guts.”
Miss DeHaven made a face. “Indeed it does. And I am happy to help you find students and escort them to the factory in St. Louis. And as a matter of fact . . .” She let her voice trail off while she slowly traced her finger around the rim of her glass.
“Yes?” Mr. Adolphius murmured. “What is it?”
Alexander could tell the fellow was entranced by Miss DeHaven. He supposed she was pretty, like Owney had said. Was Frances prettier? Alexander didn’t know. With Frances, it wasn’t about “pretty,” the way he liked her. He hoped he wouldn’t ever make a fool of himself in front of Frances the way Mr. Adolphius was doing right now, gazing at Miss DeHaven like she was made of pure gold.
Escape to the World's Fair Page 5
