THE LAST LANDING
As _The Last of the Flatboats_ passed the upper part of New Orleans, the
boys were disposed to gaze at the strangely beautiful city. It was
greater in size than any city that they had ever seen; for none of them
had visited Cincinnati, though they had lived all their lives within
sixty or seventy miles of it. New Orleans was different in architecture,
situation, and everything else from Louisville and Memphis, cities at
which they had looked up from the river, while at New Orleans they found
themselves looking down, and taking almost a bird’s-eye view of the
city. Then, too, the palm gardens, the evergreen trees, and glimpses
every now and then of great parterres of flowers, growing gayly in the
open air even in late autumn, filled them with the feeling that somehow
they had come into a world quite different from any they had ever
dreamed of before.
Finally, there were the miles of levee, thickly bordered with steamships
and sailing craft of every kind, all so new to them as to be a show in
their eyes. The forests of masts, the towering elevators, the wharves
piled high with cotton in bales and sugar in hogsheads and great piles
of tropical fruits, appealed strongly to their imaginations. There was a
soft languor in the atmosphere, and the red sunlight shone through a
sort of Indian summer haze, which made the city look dream-like, or as
if seen through a fleecy, pink veil.
Presently Phil put an end to their musings.
“Stand by the sweeps!” he called, himself going to the steering-oar. “We
must make a landing, if we ever find a vacant spot at the levee that’s
big enough to run into.”
“I say, Phil,” said Irv, presently, “there comes somebody in a skiff to
meet us; perhaps it’s some wharf-master to tell us where to land.”
A few minutes later the skiff, rowed by a stout negro man, reached the
boat, and a carefully dressed young man who had sat in the stern
dismissed the negro and his skiff, and came aboard.
To Phil he handed his card, introducing himself as one of the freight
clerks of the commission merchant to whom the planter had recommended
them. It appeared that the planter had not been content with giving them
a letter of introduction, but had written by mail from Vicksburg, and
this was the result.
“Mr. Kennedy thought you might have some difficulty in finding the
proper landing, so he told me to board you and show you the way.”
Phil thanked him, and under the man’s guidance _The Last of the
Flatboats_ made the last of her landings.
The young man seemed to know what to do about everything and how to do
it. First of all he called an insurance adjuster on board to inspect the
cargo. This, he explained, was necessary so that all insurance claims
might be adjusted.
“I’m afraid the flour must be pretty wet,” said Phil.
“Why? is it in bags?” asked the clerk.
“No, in barrels.”
“You can rest easy, then,” said the clerk. “You can’t wet flour in a
barrel. See there!” and he pointed to a ship that was taking on flour
near by. “That’s flour for Rio Janeiro, and you observe that the crane
souses every barrel of it into the river before hoisting it to the
ship’s deck.”
“So it does,” said one of the boys. “But what is that for?”
“To make the flour keep in a hot climate,” answered the clerk. “Wetting
the barrel closes up all the cracks between the staves, by making a
thick paste out of the flour that has sifted into them. That makes the
barrel water-tight, insect-tight, and even air-tight.”
“But I should think the water would soak into the flour inside,” said
Will.
“Can’t do it. Wouldn’t wet an ounce of flour if you left a barrel in the
river for a month. Flour is packed too tight for that.”
“I say, Phil,” said Irv. “Let’s go back and get those three barrels we
left in the river when we were putting the tarpaulin on.”
“Have you a memorandum of your freight, captain?” asked the clerk. “If
so, please let me have it, and I’ll make out a manifest.”
Phil handed him the little book in which he had catalogued the freight
as it was received. Phil had not the slightest idea what a “manifest”
might be, but he asked no questions. “I prefer to find out some things
through my eyes,” he said to himself. So he watched the clerk, who
spread out some broad sheets of paper on the little cabin table and
proceeded to make out a formal manifest, or detailed statement of the
freight on board what the manifest called “the good ship _The Last of
the Flatboats_.” It was all arranged in columns, and it showed from whom
each shipment came, and that each was consigned to the house of Mr.
Kennedy. Having finished this, the clerk proceeded to make out a
duplicate, which he explained was to be sent to the Exchange, so that an
accurate record might be made there for statistical purposes.
“I see,” said Phil. “That is the way statistics are got together,
showing how much of every kind of product is shipped into and out of
each commercial city.”
“Certainly,” answered the clerk, “but, excuse me, here come the
reporters. Here, boys, make your own manifests,” and with that he handed
one of his copies to the newspaper men. They scribbled rapidly on paper
pads for a brief while and then returned the manifest. Phil wondered,
but asked no questions. “What these men wrote is for publication in
newspapers, so I’ll look in the newspapers to-morrow and see what it
is.” When he did so, he found under the headline “Manifest,” merely a
condensed list of the boat’s freight with the name of the Kennedy
commission house as “consignees.” This condensed statement of freights
and consignees is published daily with reference to every boat that
arrives, for the information not only of the consignees, but also of
other merchants and speculators who want to buy, and to that end want to
know who has things to sell.
The boys were deeply interested, but their studies in commercial methods
were destined to be of brief duration. For the clerk left them almost
immediately. Later in the day he came again and said to Phil:--
“You’re rather in luck, captain. The market for western produce is up
to-day. Apples were particularly high.”
“Will they stay up long enough for us to work ours off?” asked Phil.
“Work yours off?” exclaimed the clerk, in astonishment. “Why, you’ve
sold out, bag and baggage, flatboat and all, two hours ago. I came down
to make delivery. The buyer’s clerk will be here immediately.”
It was all astonishing to the western boys, but the clerk was
good-natured, and explained while he waited for the buyer’s clerk. He
told them how Mr. Kennedy went to a big room called “’change,” where all
the other merchants were gathered, showed his manifest, and in five
minutes had sold out everything.
“But,” said Irv, “nobody has been here to look at the goods. How does
the buyer know what the things are like?”
“Why, produce is all classified, and we sell by classes. I looked
over this cargo and reported quality and condition. We made sales
accordingly. When we deliver, the buyer’s clerk will look at the things,
and if any of them are not up to the grade represented, he’ll reject
them or take them at a reduction, and so on. If we can’t agree, the
matter will be referred to a committee of ’change, and their decision is
final. Both sides are bound by it.”
“But what if either refused?”
“Well--” hesitated the clerk, “that couldn’t very well happen; but if it
did, the merchant refusing would have to leave ’change, and go out of
business. You see, all business of this kind is done on ’change, and if
a merchant isn’t a member there, he simply can’t do any business at all.
But pardon me, here comes the buyer’s clerk. I must get to work. Oh, by
the way, here’s the card of a comfortable, inexpensive hotel; Mr.
Kennedy told me to give it to you. He’ll call to see you there.”
“But why can’t we stay on the boat till her buyer is ready to take her
away?”
“Oh, he’ll do that this afternoon. He’ll drop her down to his own
warehouse, unload her, and by this time to-morrow she’ll be nothing but
a pile of lumber on shore somewhere.”
“It fairly makes my head swim,” said Irv, “to see the way these city
people go at things.”
“Mine too,” said Phil. “But I see clearly that that’s the way to get
things done, and it’s the way we ought to manage in our study club when
we get home.”
“But how? We can’t have a big ’change and all that sort of thing.”
“I didn’t mean as to details,” said Phil. “I referred to the spirit of
the thing. When these people have anything to do, they do it at once
and with all their might. Then they drop that as something done for, and
without an instant’s delay they turn to something else. That’s the way
we must manage.”
“All right,” said Will Moreraud. “Now that we’re done with the flatboat
let’s go at once to the hotel. First thing is to pack baggage.”
So they all set about getting their little belongings together.
“What about our blankets, and the stove, and the cooking-utensils
and the remains of our food supplies, and our water filter, and the
fire extinguishers, and the tools?” asked Constant Thiebaud, in
consternation. “It’ll take a day or two to sell them out.”
“Not if we set the right man at it,” said Phil. “I’ll go and see him.”
So he went to the merchant’s clerk, who instantly said:--
“Pile ’em all out on the levee there, and put a card on top saying, ‘For
sale--inquire on board the flatboat.’ I’ll sell ’em and render you an
account.”
“All right,” said Phil, “but you’ll accept your commission, of course?”
“Of course. Business is business. We never work for our health on the
levee.”