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  sixteen, and once he walked five miles with

  a deer slung over his shoulders. What if

  Mr. McDougall expected me to carry the

  canoe?

  But when we got close to the river, Mr.

  McDougall guided the canoe to the shore

  14

  and shouted over the noise of the rushing

  water, “You’ll have to stay with the wheat

  while I carry the canoe. It’s just a mile. I

  won’t be long.” He hesitated. “You’ll be

  all right?”

  “Of course,” I said, trying to hide my

  relief. Mr. McDougall slung the sacks

  of wheat on the ground beside a tree.

  Then, with a grunt, he hoisted the ca-

  noe upside down over his shoulders and

  disappeared down a narrow trail through

  the forest.

  I sat beside the tree and eyed my lunch

  packet. Mr. McDougall had said we would

  eat after the portage. But it wouldn’t hurt

  just to taste the potato. I unwrapped the

  cloth, slid out the potato and nibbled at one

  end. It was soft and floury and it made me

  feel hungrier, so I ate the other end, too.

  After all, I still had the salt pork. I finished

  off the potato in four big gulps, wrapped

  the pork back in the cloth, and set it on

  the ground.

  I stared at the two bulging sacks. Being

  15

  in charge of the wheat had seemed like

  an important job at first. Now it was just

  boring.

  I thought about Uncle Stuart. He had been

  to our farm two times. He did not look at al

  like Papa. Papa was tal and thin with nice

  eyes. Uncle Stuart was short and muscular.

  His eyes looked like they knew everything.

  He wore a shiny gold watch. Once he took

  it off and held it by the candle so we could

  see it sparkle.

  After that, Uncle Stuart didn’t come

  again. Papa said he was too busy grinding

  wheat at his gristmill. I got up and walked

  to the edge of the river. Over the roar of

  the rushing water, the forest behind me

  seemed eerily silent. I glanced over my

  shoulder a few times. Then I forgot about

  the wheat and Uncle Stuart and searched

  for a ship.

  I found a piece of flat bark that

  curved up at the edges. Perfect. Set-

  ting it gently in the water, I watched

  the current snatch it away, scooting it

  16

  past a dead snag. I ran along the shore,

  following my ship’s wild trip through

  the churning water.

  I was on a real ship once, when Papa and

  Ellie and I sailed to Canada from England.

  One day I would sail again, around the

  world. I would not come home until I had

  had a hundred adventures!

  My bark ship hit a rock and flipped.

  Then it lodged itself firmly against a jam

  of logs and sticks that rose in the middle of

  the river. Disappointed, I turned to search

  for another ship.

  I looked around. I had run farther than

  I thought. I couldn’t see the dead snag,

  and I couldn’t see the tree and the bags

  of wheat.

  An uneasy feeling prickled my neck.

  What if Mr. McDougall had come back?

  What if he was standing beside the tree

  right now, his face dark with disapproval?

  What if he told Papa that I had forgotten

  my job?

  I raced back along the river, all the way

  17

  to the tree. And then I stopped, cold hor-

  ror sweeping over me.

  A dark shape hunched over our bags of

  wheat. The rest of my lunch lay scattered

  on the ground, the piece of cloth ripped. I

  shouted, and the animal turned and glared

  at me with sharp black eyes. The sun glis-

  tened on its coat of smooth thick quills.

  A porcupine!

  I knew a lot about porcupines. Once

  Star and a porcupine had a fight under our

  barn. Star crawled to the cabin, whimper-

  ing, his nose and cheeks bristling with

  quills. I remembered how Star’s whole

  body shook when Papa pulled the quills

  out. For the first time, he growled at Papa

  and snapped at his hand. I had closed my

  eyes, and Ellie had cried and begged Papa

  to stop. For days after, Star wouldn’t eat.

  He just slunk around the cabin, his face

  swollen and sore.

  My heart thumping, I edged towards

  the porcupine. It had turned back to the

  sacks of wheat, poking and sniffing at them

  18

  curiously. I imagined its claws raking through

  the sack, spilling our precious wheat on the

  ground. Papa would be furious.

  I screamed, “Go away! Get out of here!”

  The porcupine ignored me. It shuffled

  around the bags, grunting. I picked up a

  stout branch lying on the ground. Kate

  had told me that porcupines could shoot

  their quills, like an Indian with arrows. I

  swallowed hard. Papa said it wasn’t true,

  but how could he be sure?

  The porcupine clambered on top of one

  of the sacks. Its long curved claws glinted.

  I took a big breath. Then I rushed forward.

  I smashed the stick as hard as I could on

  the porcupine’s back.

  The porcupine grunted. It slid off the

  sack and spun around, its quills rising in

  a bristling cloud. It lowered its head and

  lashed its tail. I jumped back, waving the

  branch in front of me like a sword.

  For an endless moment, the porcupine

  and I stared at each other. Then it gave

  another deep grunt, and waddled into

  19

  20

  the forest, its tail swishing from side to side.

  I waited until it had disappeared. My

  hands shaking, I gathered up the remains

  of my lunch. I sat on the ground and leaned

  against the tree, sucking in gulps of air to

  steady myself. A few minutes later, I heard

  a loud “Hallo” from the woods, and Mr.

  McDougall came striding around the bend

  in the trail.

  I stood up. My legs wobbled like jelly.

  Looking after the wheat was an important

  job. It wasn’t boring at all. But was I ever

  glad that Mr. McDougall was back!

  21

  Chapter Three

  Mr. McDougall hoisted a sack over each

  of his big square shoulders and set off

  down the trail. Once Ellie had said, “Mr.

  McDougall is as strong as an ox!”

  Papa had corrected her, “No, as strong

  as two oxen!” As I struggled to keep up

  with Mr. McDougal ’s long strides, I thought

  Papa should have said five oxen!

  I was quiet al the way to Big Lake, hug-

  ging the secret of the porcupine to myself,

  imagining the look on Papa’s face if he knew

  how close I had come to losing his grain. I

  could hear his disappointed voice, “Max just

  isn’t old enough to be trusted.”


  A cold wind blew across Big Lake, whip-

  ping up small waves. We climbed into the

  22

  canoe, and Mr. McDougall paddled down

  the lake, keeping close to the rocky shore.

  Steep forested slopes came right to the

  edge of the water. We skimmed past the

  mouths of small creeks tumbling into the

  lake. High above us the white foam of a

  waterfall shimmered in the dark trees.

  “No one lives beside this lake,” I said,

  disappointed. I decided that I liked our

  lake with its flat banks and grassy fields

  much better.

  Mr. McDougall paddled into a small

  cove. I jumped out of the canoe onto a

  flat rock. Mr. McDougall hoisted the grain

  sacks onto the ground and pul ed the canoe

  up onto a strip of gravel beach.

  “Not much farther now, Max,” he said.

  I scrambled behind him along a narrow

  mossy trail that wound through the forest.

  Mr. McDougal never complained about his

  load, but he grunted with pleasure when at

  last the roof of a cabin and a brown strip

  of muddy wagon road appeared through

  the trees.

  23

  The Landings!

  My eyes tried to take in everything at

  once as we walked through the village. Log

  buildings were scattered along both sides

  of the road. In one building, a blacksmith

  leaned over a glowing forge. A man with a

  hammer climbed over the roof of a cabin.

  Two Indian women wearing buckskin dresses

  and beaded moccasins walked by carrying

  baskets. A horse whinnied and everywhere

  was the sound of clanging and banging.

  A wagon sloshed by through the mud, its

  driver urging two tired-looking horses with

  his whip. The air was hazy and smelled like

  wood smoke.

  My heart pounded with excitement. I

  forgot that I was tired. I wanted so badly to

  explore on my own. Impatiently, I fol owed

  Mr. McDougall across a narrow wooden

  bridge over a river. An enormous building

  loomed on the other side. It was bigger,

  much bigger, than Mr. McDougal ’s barn,

  and that was the biggest building I could

  ever remember seeing. I counted windows

  24

  on three stories. But more surprising than

  that was a huge wooden wheel at the side

  of the building, like a gigantic wagon

  wheel.

  “Your uncle’s gristmill,” said Mr.

  McDougall.

  I knew right then that Uncle Stuart was

  an important man. You had to be impor-

  tant to own a building like that. Important,

  and rich!

  “Stuart must be out somewhere,” said

  Mr. McDougall. He lowered the bags of

  grain to the ground with a huge sigh.

  “How do you know?” I said.

  “The wheel’s not moving. Means your

  uncle’s not working right now. That wheel

  turns the stones inside the mill that grind

  the wheat.”

  “And what makes the wheel turn?”

  “Water.” He pointed behind the mill to

  a large round pond. “Your uncle’s got the

  gates shut right now. That dams up the

  river and makes the millpond. When he

  opens them up, the water rushes through

  25

  and turns the wheel. He’ll show you how

  it works later.”

  “That pond’s big enough to sail a boat

  on!” I said.

  Mr. McDougall smiled. “Some of the

  boys in the village like to fish in there.

  And it’s a good place to skate when it

  freezes.”

  I thought that if my uncle owned the

  millpond, too, he was important indeed!

  I studied the huge wheel on the mill.

  It wasn’t really like a wagon wheel at all.

  It had things that looked like paddles

  all the way around. I imagined the great

  wheel turning, water splashing over the

  paddles.

  Then I sucked in my breath.

  A flash of red had appeared over the

  top of the wheel.

  And disappeared.

  I glued my eyes to the wheel. A boy’s

  head popped into sight. He had the red-

  dest hair I had ever seen. He saw me and

  grinned. Then he pulled himself up until

  26

  he was standing on top of the wheel.

  Mr. McDougall was talking to a man

  who had pulled up in front of the mill in

  a wagon. He hadn’t seen the boy on the

  wheel.

  The boy scrambled from one paddle

  to the next, looking down to see if I was

  watching. His leg slipped. I sucked in my

  breath. He was going to fall! He grabbed

  the edge of the wheel and laughed at me.

  His red hair flamed in the sun.

  “Come up and see the view!” he hol-

  lered.

  Mr. McDougall and the man turned and

  stared up at the wheel. A look of alarm

  spread across their faces.

  “Or are you too scared?” the boy

  yelled.

  “No!” My heart thumped under my winter

  jacket. More than anything in the world, I

  wanted to be on top of that wheel with the

  boy with the fiery hair and the big grin.

  “Then come on up! You can see all the

  way to Toronto!”

  27

  28

  I knew he was kidding. But I would

  have climbed up on that wheel with him,

  if I hadn’t heard a voice roar behind me,

  “Young Red, what the devil do you think

  you’re — ”

  I spun around.

  Uncle Stuart was running across the

  wooden bridge. His boots splashed in the

  mud puddles. I shivered. His open coattails

  flapped like the wings of a crow. His face

  was purple with rage.

  29

  Chapter Four

  “How many times have I told you to stay off

  the waterwheel?” my uncle demanded.

  Red jumped to the ground. He squinted

  at Uncle Stuart. “It ain’t that dangerous,”

  he said loudly.

  “Not dangerous?” sputtered Uncle Stuart.

  “I know millers who have lost their legs

  working on waterwheels.”

  For a second, Red seemed impressed.

  His bright blue eyes studied Uncle Stuart

  with interest. Then he sighed. “A guy can’t

  have any fun around here.”

  “If you helped your ma and pa in the

  store more, you wouldn’t be out looking for

  fun al the time. You’re trouble, young Red.

  Now off you go! Get out of here!”

  30

  Before he ran down the road, Red gave

  me a quick wink. Red wasn’t afraid of my

  uncle. And I had a feeling he had all kinds

  of adventures. I felt a pang of envy.

  “And don’t you be looking like that,”

  Uncle Stuart said to me. “You don’t want

  anything to do with that one. And don’t be

  expecting me to give you a tour around my

  mill because I’ve go
t work to do.”

  I followed Mr. McDougall and my uncle

  through a door at the back of the mill into

  an enormous room. A pale cloud of flour

  dust hung in the sunlight coming through

  the windows. A thin-faced man with an

  enormous droopy moustache was stacking

  grain sacks against the wall. He nodded at

  Uncle Stuart uneasily, and then bent over

  a bulging sack.

  In the middle of the room was a big,

  round, wooden contraption with a fun-

  nel on top. A wooden chute came down

  through the ceiling above it. I walked

  over and peered inside at a huge, flat,

  gray stone.

  31

  “That’s the millstone. There’s another

  one underneath,” said Uncle Stuart. “The

  grain comes down the chute, through the

  funnel and is crushed between the stones.

  You stay clear when they’re turning. A

  gristmill is no place to play.”

  Mr. McDougall and Uncle Stuart talked

  for a few minutes. Uncle Stuart wrote

  some things down in a big black ledger.

  An orange cat wound himself around my

  legs. I knelt beside him and stroked his

  rough fur. I hoped Uncle Stuart would

  make the stones turn before we had to

  leave.

  “Lester, open up the gates.” Uncle Stuart

  barked his orders.

  “Can I go with him?” I asked eagerly.

  Uncle Stuart shook his head. “You

  stay in here where you can’t get into

  trouble.”

  Lester went out the front of the mill,

  and Uncle Stuart and Mr. McDougal disap-

  peared through a door at the side. I stared

  after them resentfully. Why did everyone

  32

  treat me like a baby? I could probably

  open the gates myself if they only let

  me try. After a few minutes, I wondered

  if they had forgotten all about me. I

  was just thinking that I’d like to find

  out what was upstairs when the whole

  mill shook and groaned. I jumped up,

  my heart thumping. The flat gray stone

  was turning slowly.

  Boots thumped on the ceiling overhead.

  A stream of shiny, pale brown grain poured

  through the funnel. I watched fascinated as

  a wooden box beside the millstones slowly

  filled with flour.

  In a few minutes Uncle Stuart was back.

  He had taken off his coat and rolled up

  his sleeves. He pinched some of the flour

  between his fingers, muttering softly. He

  cocked his head and listened.

  He noticed me then and gave me a long

  hard look. “The stones can’t rub each other.