James stepped nimbly aside, and dealt him a heavy blow behind the ear, tumbling him to the bottom of the boat, among the copper ore. Thinking to bring hostilities to a sudden close, he leaped upon Murphy, and held him down.

“Pound the fool, Jim,” cried the captain. But James had him fast in his grip, so that the fellow could not harm him, and he refused to strike. He only said:

“I have him, now.”

“If he hain’t no more sense ’n to get mad at accidents, giv it ter him. Why don’t yer strike?”

“Because he’s down, and in my power,” answered the noble boy. He never would have it said that he struck a man save in self-defence; and it is not self-defence to strike a man when he can be restrained without striking.

“Got enough, Murphy? You can get up when you have,” said James to his conquered antagonist.

“Yis, ’nuff,” answered Murphy. James rose, and allowed his assailant to rise also; then, extending his hand, in the magnanimous spirit of a victor, he said:

“Murphy, give us your hand.”

And they shook hands, and were fast friends there-after. From that time James moved among the crew not as a greenhorn and coward, but as a boy-man—a boy in age, but a man in action; a boy in physical appearance, but a man in convictions and generous spirit.

Among the boatmen was one Harry Brown, a good-hearted, rough, dissipated fellow, who had a strong liking for James, and would do almost anything for him. Harry was impetuous, and whisky often increased his impetuosity, so that he was frequently in trouble.

“Look here, Harry, it’s a little rough for you to be in rows so often; let whisky alone, and you’ll not be in trouble half so much,” said James to him, in a kind way. If any one else on board had said that, Harry would have resented it, and told him to “mind his own business.” But he pleasantly said to James:

“That’s so, Jim; I’d giv’ a pile to be like yer.”

“You can be, if you are a mind to,” replied James. “Whisky is the last stuff I should think of drinking Harry; sooner drink the dirty water in this canal.”

“Yer are a trump, Jim.”

“I’m just what I am,” replied James, “and you don’t begin to be what you might be, Harry. Your generous soul could make sunshine all about you, only break your bottle.”

This compliment tickled Harry in the right place, and he concluded that James was rehearsing more truth than poetry. James saw that he held the key to the rough boatman’s heart, and he proceeded:

“I don’t see why boatmen can’t be as decent as other people, but they are not. They are about the hardest set I ever saw—drinking, swearing, bragging, fighting, Isn’t it so, Harry?”

“Yer about right, Jim,” Harry answered, with a comical shrug of his shoulders.

“If I was captain of a boat, I would have a new order of things, or fling up my commission,” James continued.

“I’ll bet yer, Jim; we’d all behave well to please yer,” interrupted Harry, acquiescing in the supposition.