Quietly, he gathered the things he’d need. He collected the bread slices from the pie safe, added cheese and meat, then wrapped everything in a piece of waxed paper. He stuffed the food into the bag with his journal, a change of clothes and his favorite story, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mr. Mark Twain.
Next he went to the shelf in the living room and retrieved the special book he wasn’t supposed to touch. Inside was a hollowed-out compartment where his mother kept money. Henry took ten one-dollar bills from the small stack, hesitated and put five back. His mother would need money, even if she were in a hospital. He jammed the bills into his jacket pocket before carefully replacing the volume.
Rummaging in the desk, Henry found a letter from his father with a Winnipeg return address. He stuffed it into his book bag. There was only one other thing he needed.
Going to the mantle over the stone fire-place, Henry took down the photograph of his father. Removing the picture from its small silver frame, he gently touched his father’s black and white face, brushed away a speck of dirt and tucked the picture into his jacket along with the money.
He hadn’t wanted his pa to leave and had begged to go with him, but his pa said Henry was too young. Maybe now, when Henry showed up ready to work like any able-bodied man, his father would change his mind.
He smiled and patted his book bag. He was through with his mother’s rules and the endless babysitting, and he’d never have to worry about drowning in Nova Scotia.
This was not how he’d imagined today would go, but he wouldn’t let anyone, not even his mother, tell him what to do. Like his hero, Tom Sawyer, Henry would seek his fame and fortune in the wide world. Maybe he couldn’t hitch a ride on a Mississippi riverboat, but he could take a page out of Tom’s book and live by his wits and by his own rules.
CHAPTER 3
Winnipeg had seemed much closer when they’d taken the family car. Henry kicked a stone as he trudged along, listening to the insects humming around him in the warm June night. But now there was no stupid car, and he was walking down the stupid road in the middle of the stupid night!
The full moon turned the trees to shimmering silver in the gentle breeze. As he passed farm after farm, he noticed hobo signs on several gateposts. One looked like a lightning bolt, and Henry copied the zigzag line into his journal with a note that it meant the house must have been struck by lightning.
He was tired and wondering how much farther it was to Winnipeg when a worn-out farm truck rattled to a stop beside him. The rust bucket was in sad shape, and there were two scrawny cows in the back, which didn’t add to the appeal of the ride. It smelled strongly of manure, and Henry tried not to breathe through his nose.
“Where you headed, young fella?” the driver, a scarecrow of a man, asked as Henry climbed in.
Henry had thought of a believable story to explain why he was on the road at night alone. “My pa sent me home with money for my mother, and now I’m going back to Winnipeg to help him on his job.”
This immediately aroused the driver’s interest. “Your pa has work? I don’t suppose the company he’s working for is looking to hire another man? After I sell these heifers, I’ll be looking for work myself. I’m hoping for six dollars a head. That’ll carry my family for the rest of the month, but then we’ll be needing more money.”
Henry felt cornered. “Ah, actually, this is his last week, and then we’re going to find other jobs so we can send more money home.”
This seemed to surprise the man. “Well, if that don’t beat all. Your pa has a real positive outlook on life. I’ve been looking for any kind of work and I can’t find anything, not even sweeping sidewalks or digging ditches.” He glanced furtively at Henry. “How you planning on living until your pa gets more work? The police don’t take kindly to vagrants—folks with no money and no place to live. Why, they throw those poor souls right in jail.”
“Oh, I’m no vagrant,” Henry said proudly. “I have five dollars cash money.”
“Five dollars! You’re rich, son. I should warn you; there are a lot of ruffians out there who would rob you blind. Do you have your money stashed someplace safe?”
Henry patted his jacket pocket. “Yes sir, I sure do.” Feeling like a man of the world, he sat back to enjoy the ride. The miles bumped by and, exhausted from his long night, he soon drifted into a doze.
Henry was startled awake by a hand in his pocket. The truck was parked on the side of the road, and he could smell the farmer’s rank breath. “Hey, what are you doing, mister?”
The man’s eyes were wild. “My family’s starving and I ain’t got nothing but these measly cows to sell. I need that money!” He made a lunge for Henry.
“No! You can’t have it!” Henry struck out with his fists, punching the man in the face with all his strength.
The man recoiled, cursing. “I’m gonna tear you up, kid!”
Grabbing his bag, Henry threw open the door and bolted into the trees at the side of the road. He slipped into the undergrowth and hid until the farmer grew tired of searching for him. As he watched the taillights of the truck disappear into the night, Henry still couldn’t believe the man had tried to rob him. He had seemed so friendly.
Henry didn’t feel safe until the sun came up and he saw a sign on the road that said Welcome to Winnipeg.
Winnipeg was a big place, but Henry didn’t want to waste any of his precious money on streetcars. After getting lost several times and having to ask directions from impatient strangers, he finally found the boarding house where his father was staying. His pa would be so glad to see him, Henry was sure they’d go out for a big steak dinner to celebrate!
He walked up the broken wooden steps and knocked on the door. The sun was hot, and he desperately wanted a drink of water. His father would have water to give him—cool, clear water. At last a white-haired woman opened the door.
“I don’t have any spare food, so move along,” she snapped.
She was about to slam the door when Henry blurted out, “I don’t want food. I’m looking for my father, Michael Dafoe. He’s staying here.”
The old woman hesitated, frowning. “Never heard of him.” She started to close the door again.
Henry pulled the picture out and held it up. “This is my pa. His letter said he’s staying here and that he was going to work on the Glenmore Dam and Reservoir Relief Project.”
The woman peered at the picture. “We’re not big on names around here. There’s no need. No one stays long enough to bother. Your pa was here, but he left about a month ago.”
Henry felt a crushing wave of disappointment, followed by a flash of fear as he realized what this meant. He was alone in a strange city. What would he do now? “Did he say where he was going?”
“No, he didn’t.” The woman waved her bony hand dismissively. “They come and they go.”
“Can you at least tell me how to get to the Glenmore Dam project?” Henry waited as patiently as possible, but patience wasn’t one of his strengths.
“Never heard of it, sonny. Try the Canadian Pacific Railway yards. That’s where all the men go to get jobs.” She pointed. “Head west. You can’t miss it.”
The woman shut the door, and Henry stood staring at the weathered wood. The paint was peeling and the door was in serious need of repair. It occurred to Henry that if his father should return, it would be a good idea to let him know that Henry was looking for him. He felt around in his book bag and pulled out the stub of a red crayon. He looked at it and thought of Anne. Red was her favorite color. At the bottom of the door, he drew a small smiling face and, beside it, a letter H with an exclamation point. That was how Henry had signed notes to his father back home. Stuffing the crayon into his jacket pocket, Henry looked at what he had drawn. It was very much like a hobo sign. His father had been right. It was a great way of communicating.
This was not how he’d imagined today would go, but he was sure he’d find his father at the train yard and everything would be fine. Henry turned a
nd started down the battered steps.
CHAPTER 4
When Henry arrived at the railway yards, there was a large crowd of men milling about. Some carried signs demanding jobs, others shouted that they didn’t want to go on the dole.
Henry’s father had told him about the dole. It was money the government gave you when your family was starving. Henry knew it was a shameful thing, something to be avoided at all costs. His pa said a real man earned his living by honest hard work and didn’t take charity from anyone, which was why he’d left home to look for a job.
Past the tall fence, Henry saw the big yard. The trains were amazing! He watched the donkey engines push and pull boxcars and even full-sized locomotives around the crisscrossing tracks. There was a huge roundhouse with tracks running into it from different directions. As Henry stared in fascination, a large engine, belching steam like a lumbering dragon, rumbled into the building. The engine stopped on a wide pivoting platform, which began to turn. When it came to a halt, the locomotive chugged off in a different direction.
Tearing himself away, Henry moved into the crowd. He felt uneasy as he searched for his father. He couldn’t see him anywhere, and these men were very angry. They began to shout and to shove the train-yard gate. Someone threw a rock over the fence. Another man stepped in front of a big black car as it drove up. The car stopped, and within seconds the men were crowding around. The shouting became much louder as the mob rocked the car back and forth.
Two men standing in front of Henry backed away.
“Come on, let’s get out of here!” the taller of the two said. “We’ll go to the hobo jungle, where it’s safe.”
The other man laughed at this but followed his friend.
Henry was afraid a riot was going to break out. The tall man had said the hobo jungle was safe. Henry didn’t know what a hobo jungle was, but it had to be better than this shouting, pushing, shoving throng of furious men.
He squeezed through the mob and followed the two strangers.
They made their way through a maze of streets until they reached the outskirts of the city. The sun had gone down, and in the gloom Henry could smell wood smoke drifting on the breeze.
He stopped. In the trees ahead of him were dozens of small campfires, ramshackle sheds and flimsy lean-tos. Shadowy men in tattered coats tended pots hung over the fires or sat huddled together, muttering to one another. Their unshaven faces looked sinister in the flickering light.
Henry swallowed. If this was the hobo jungle, he wasn’t sure he wanted anything to do with it. It didn’t look safe at all, but going back was out of the question. He didn’t have anyplace to stay in the city. Had his father ended up here, with these dangerous-looking men?
Henry spotted an old canvas tarp lying on top of a pile of broken posts. If he were Tom Sawyer, or even Tom’s best friend, Huck Finn, he’d take that tarp and make a teepee to live in while he was lost in the wilderness.
Henry inched behind the woodpile and pulled out a couple of sturdy pieces, then dragged the tarp and the wood into the trees. Wrestling with the posts, he wedged them into the ground a few feet apart and hung the tarp across. It wasn’t like the teepees he’d seen in books, but it would do.
Crawling inside, Henry wrinkled his nose at the moldy smell. He rummaged in his book bag for the bread, meat and cheese he’d brought. Tearing off a small portion of each, he carefully wrapped up the rest and put it back in his bag. Since there was no telling how long it would be until he could get more food, he would have to ration the little he had left.
When Henry finished his meager meal, he plumped up the lumpy book bag to use as a pillow. He wished he’d brought a blanket with him. The temperature was dropping and the ground felt damp.
This was not how he’d imagined today would go, but at least wild animals wouldn’t eat him while he slept. He was tired, scared, cold, hungry and thirsty. Henry curled up into a ball, pulled his coat around him against the night chill and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 5
In his dream, Henry was stuffing himself with huge piles of freshly fried fish, bowls of fluffy mashed potatoes and basket-loads of biscuits and gravy.
With a jolt, he awoke and took a deep sniff. It wasn’t a dream. He could smell fish frying.
Scrambling out of his makeshift tent, Henry blinked as the morning sunlight blinded him. When his watering eyes cleared, he looked around in amazement. Everything looked different. Instead of gangs of dangerous characters huddled over smoky campfires, the hobo jungle was filled with bustling men, laughing and cooking or shaking out blankets as they straightened the camp.
“Feel like a little breakfast?”
Henry spun around. A tall skinny man with a bushy beard grinned at him.
“I saw you building your campsite last night and wondered why you never came to join us for a cup of joe. I thought the neighborly thing to do would be to invite you to share the morning fry-up.”
Henry didn’t know whether to run or accept the hobo’s offer. Then his stomach made a loud growling sound, and he decided he would eat now, run later. “I am a tiny bit hungry. I’ll join you for breakfast, mister.”
“The name’s Fred Glass,” the man said as he stuck out his hand.
Henry gingerly shook hands with Fred, whose clothes were more than a little shabby. “Mine’s Henry Dafoe.”
They sat around the fire, and Henry watched as several other men came by, holding out bowls or plates into which one of the golden fish was placed. Finally, Fred held one up for Henry. “Courtesy of Light Fingers Flynn.”
“Ah, I seem to have misplaced my plate.” Henry pretended to search in his book bag. “And my fork, knife and spoon are gone too.”
Fred smiled knowingly. “Well, lad, today’s your lucky day. I happen to have a couple of extras. You keep ‘em.” He handed Henry a spoon and then expertly flipped the fish into a wooden bowl.
Maybe it was because he was so hungry or maybe it was because of Fred’s cooking skills, but Henry had never tasted anything so delicious as that fish. He ate it down to the bones.
After breakfast, Henry thought it was a good time to show Fred his father’s picture. “I’m looking for my pa. Have you seen him?” He held up the snapshot.
Fred shook his head. “You should talk to Clickety Clack.” He pointed at a lean-to on the far side of the site. “Sooner or later, every man on the road comes through this camp. If your pa’s a traveler, he’d have bunked here a night or two and Clickety Clack would know. Heck, he knows everyone and everything that happens in the jungle, but be warned, that old cuss doesn’t like youngsters—or anyone else for that matter.” He chuckled.
Henry nodded his thanks and started across the camp.
Clickety Clack turned out to be an old man wearing a voluminous raggedy coat, purple plaid vest, tweed pants and long green striped scarf with a fringe on the bottom. The wispy gray hair sticking out from under his battered felt hat looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in a long time, and the man’s scruffy beard would have made Henry’s mother frown. She would have called him grizzled. Henry thought he was disgusting.
“What do you want?” the old man growled as Henry walked up.
Henry held out his father’s picture. “My name’s Henry Dafoe, and I was wondering when this man came through here?”
The hobo screwed up his face and spat a wad of chewing tobacco into the dirt at Henry’s feet. “Never did.”
This wasn’t what Henry wanted to hear. “Are you sure, mister? His name is Michael Dafoe. Could you look again?”
“Are you deaf, boy? I said he was never here.” The old man spat again, then started rolling up a well-used blanket.
Henry felt anger welling up inside him. What did this old coot know anyway? He looked around at the sprawling hobo jungle. “Just because you never saw him doesn’t mean he wasn’t here. You could have missed him. My father came here to work on the Glenmore Dam and Reservoir Relief Project, and I intend to find him.”
The old hobo looke
d at him with stone gray eyes. “Did you say the Glenmore Dam Project?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Henry said with confidence. “He’s there right now!”
Clickety Clack shook his head. “Young pup. You don’t know a dang thing.”
“I don’t have time for this, old man.” Henry had never been much good at controlling his temper, and he was getting desperate.
Clickety Clack coughed—a wet, gooey sound. “Let me finish tying up my old turkey here and maybe I’ll tell you something about the Glenmore Dam Project.” The tramp calmly went back to rolling his blanket and securing it with a worn belt.
Henry’s limited patience was gone and his temper fast taking over. Finally Clickety Clack stood and stretched his back lazily.
“Well now, if you’re headin’ to the Glenmore Dam, you’re a might east of where you want to be.” Clickety Clack’s lip twisted into a crooked half smile. His teeth were stained yellow.
Henry wished he had a big stick so he could poke the aggravating old derelict. “How far? One block, ten blocks, a mile?”
Clickety Clack looked to the west as though he could see the dam right up the road. “Oh, a little farther than that.”
The hobo paused again. Henry was about to blow a gasket.
Clickety Clack went on in his slow, aggravating way. “Not a block… not a mile…” He scratched absently under his arm. “More like two… provinces.”
Henry didn’t understand. “What?”
“You need to head two provinces to the west, boy. The Glenmore Dam is in Calgary, Alberta. It’ll probably take you a while, especially as I don’t think you’ve ever ridden the rods before.”
Henry swallowed. Alberta! His parents had never said anything about his father leaving Manitoba. One thing was certain; he wasn’t going to let Clickety Clack know how shocked and scared he was. No sir. He’d do what Tom or Huck would do. He’d find a way to get there by himself.
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