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 looked 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.
“Of course I’ve ridden the rods,” he blustered, not knowing what the rods were, let alone how to ride them. “It’s been a while, that’s all.”
“Is that a fact?” The hobo stuck a fresh plug of chewing tobacco in his cheek.
Henry felt a little foolish, but it was too late now. “I used to ride all the time, but that was ages ago, when I was just a kid. Remind me again how it’s done?”
Clickety Clack roared with laughter, almost spewing his tobacco into the dirt. “You forget, do you? Well now, don’t that beat all. You plan on hopping a freight to Calgary? Because that’s about the only way a pup like you is going to make it out there. I was thinking of heading to Calgary myself, but I have to plan for it. It’s a long way.”
Henry knew the jig was up. “So what would it cost for you to take me with you?”
Clickety Clack spat a new gob into the dirt. “I travel alone, boy.” A greedy gleam came into his eye. “But for curiosity’s sake, what do you have?”
Henry thought of the five one-dollar bills in his pocket. He also remembered the desperate farmer who’d tried to rob him. He wasn’t going to trust this old man for a minute. “I’ll pay you five dollars cash to take me to Calgary.” The mention of money immediately got the tramp’s attention.
“You have that much on you? Where you hiding it?” Clickety Clack’s hungry eyes went to Henry’s book bag.
“All you need to know is that I won’t pay until we get to the Glenmore Dam.” Henry stuck his chin out defiantly. He wouldn’t be tricked again.
“That’s a long way to go on faith, boy. I’ll have to see it before I take a step.” Clickety Clack clasped his hands as though praying.
Hesitantly, Henry pulled the cash out of his pocket for the hobo’s inspection.
Clickety Clack reached out a gnarled hand, but Henry snatched the bills back. “Is it a deal?”
The hobo rubbed his bristly chin. “Deal!” He grinned, then spat into his dirty palm and held it out for Henry to shake.
Reluctantly, Henry clasped the hobo’s disgusting hand to seal the bargain.
This was not how he’d imagined today would go. He’d thought by tonight he’d
be eating dinner with his father, but instead it looked like he’d be with this raggedy tramp, hopping a freight train to Alberta!
