Something woke me up. I don't know what. I didn't know where I was at
first. There wasn't a sound except a dog barkin' way off. Mitch was
sound asleep. Pretty soon I thought I heard somethin' way down the
river. I kept lookin', past the bridge where the red lanterns hung, way
down into the darkness of the river, between the woods. And all of a
sudden I saw two lights, then more lights, then fire shot straight up
from smokestacks. It was a steamboat. It must be the _City of Peoria_,
from St. Louis.
I shook Mitch and got him to. He rubbed his eyes, then jumped up sudden
and strong. He stood up and looked. "Skeet," he says, "there she is. Who
knows Tom Sawyer may have seen her this week or last week? Tom Sawyer
may have been on her. What would you think if Tom Sawyer was actually on
her, takin' a trip? For he can go anywheres he wants to, havin' as much
money as he has."
So we stood up and watched her. And pretty soon we could hear her puff,
and see all the lights and see the fire and the sparks shoot out of the
smokestacks; and as far as I could see, there wasn't no one but Mitch
and me watchin' her and waitin' for her to come in. It seemed she'd
never get in. She puffed and blowed. The current must have been awful
strong. By and by we thought we could hear voices on her; we could hear
the bell. And finally she came under the bridge, blowin' smoke and
noise right against the floor of the bridge with a louder noise. That
was about a half a mile away, it seemed. And pretty soon then she swung
to right opposite the shed where we was, and nosed in. They threw down a
gang plank and the men began to work, niggers and such. We went down and
watched 'em. The captain came along, and Mitch says to me, "Now we got
to find out about the boat, and we've got to get a job on her and work
our way. We must hang on to our money as long as we can." So Mitch went
right up to the captain and says: "Can we get a job on this here boat,
me and my chum?"
The captain says, "What can you do?"
"We can do anything," says Mitch.
"Can you peel potatoes, and carry water, and wait on table?"
"Yes, sir," says Mitch.
"All right," says the captain. "You're hired; ten cents a day and board.
Report in the mornin' at six o'clock."
"I'm ready now," says Mitch.
"Report in the mornin'," says the captain.
Then Mitch says: "Why can't we go on board now, and go to bed and be
ready when six o'clock comes?"
Just then he began to holler at some niggers carryin' some boxes, and he
said to us, "Get out of the way there." We stepped aside, and the
niggers got between us and the captain, and when they was past the
captain had disappeared. We couldn't see him nowheres. There was a man
standin' there, a kind of boss, it seemed. So we asked him when the boat
was goin' back to St. Louis, and he said to-morrow at noon. Then another
boss spoke up and said, "No, we're goin' up to Copperas Creek, back
Saturday." "Who says so?" "Well, that's the talk." "You didn't get that
from the captain." "No, but that's the talk."
"Gee," said Mitch, "what wouldn't you give to sleep on her? We could
sleep on the deck. Let's wait and ask the captain."
We waited around for about an hour. But the captain didn't appear. Then
Mitch says: "Come on, Skeet, we're hired, we belong on this boat, we
have a right to get on her, let's climb around there up to the deck."
So we watched so nobody could see us. We climbed around, up the poles,
over the railing, and got on to the deck. It was way off toward the bow
and nobody was there. We looked at the river a bit. Things got quieter
and quieter. Finally we lay down on the deck and fell asleep.
[Illustration: Susie Skinner]
And pretty soon I began to feel it was gettin' daylight. I didn't sleep
very well. And by and by I felt somebody nudgin' me, and I opened my
eyes, and there stood a man in a white apron with a white cap on. And he
says, "Here, what you doin' here? You ain't got no right on this boat."
He nudged Mitch, and Mitch woke up. Then the man said, "Where do you
boys belong? Did you get on at Bath, or Beardstown?"
"We got on here," says Mitch. "We're hired. The captain hired us to peel
potatoes and carry water, and we're here ready to work."
"You are, are you?" says the cook, for it was the cook. "Well, then,
come along. It's half past five, and time to go to work."
He took us to the kitchen and set us to work. First we both peeled
potatoes. Then he set us doin' all sorts of things, carryin' dishes,
bringin' his terbaker, and I had to carry water; and finally he made me
wipe dishes which a girl was washin'. And such a lot of swearin' you
never heard in your life. The cook was singin' a song which went
somethin' like this, as far as I can remember:
There was a little girl, and she lived with her mother,
And the world all over couldn't find such a nother,
Tum-a-ter-a-um-a lida bugaroo,
Tum-a-ter-a-um-a lida bugaroo.
She had hair on her head like thorns on the hedges,
And the teeth in her jaws was a set of iron wedges,
Tum-a-ter-a-um-a lida bugaroo,
Tum-a-ter-a-um-a lida bugaroo.
And he was throwin' things into the skillet and callin' to the girl who
was washin' dishes. She wore slippers that slipped back and forth on her
feet; her apron was twisted; her hair was twisted in a little knot; she
had on a brass ring, and he called her Susie. Then he'd sing:
There goes Susie Skinner,
How in the hell you know?
I know her by her apron strings,
And her shoe strings draggin' on the floor,
Gol dern her,
And her shoe strings draggin' on the floor.
By and by breakfast was ready, and Mitch and me could hardly wait. We
couldn't eat till all the passengers was served, for they made us go in
and take away the soiled dishes. And so when it came our turn, we just
pitched into the liver and potatoes and the pancakes.
And it must have been about half past ten, and hot. It was hot like the
sun under a burning glass, and the river smelled and the dead fish. Only
a little breeze began to stir after a while, and then it was better. We
had nothin' to do now, and stood by the railin' lookin' at the kids on
shore. "Don't you bet they wish they were here?" said Mitch. "Well,
we've struck it, at last, and by Saturday, we'll see Tom Sawyer, and
tell him all about our trip."
I began to hear the sound of a fiddle, and a lot of laughin'; so Mitch
and me edged around the deck till we got toward the front right under
the little cupola where the wheel was, where the captain stood when the
boat was runnin'. And there sat a lot of men, the captain and several
others, with some glasses and beer bottles; and a white-haired man, his
name was Col. Lambkin, with his mustache curled and waxed up and all
white too, was dancin' as nimble as a boy. This fiddler was playin'
somethin' awful devilish and quick, and the rest was pattin' their hands
and feet while the old feller was dancin'. He was dressed in a fine,
tight fittin' coat and had on varnished shoes, and a panama hat with a
string buttoned into his lapel so his hat wouldn't blow away; and a
diamond in his necktie, and one on his hand that I could see glitter as
he danced.
We got up closer, and the captain saw us and said: "Come over here now
and do a jig--come on."
The fiddler stopped playin' and looked around. It was John Armstrong.
First he looked at me, then he looked down at the floor, kind a funny
like, and then he raised his eyes and looked at us again. We just stood
there, not knowin' what to do. Then John said: "Wal, boys, when did you
come?"
[Illustration: And There Sat a Lot of Men]
The captain said, "Do you know them kids, John?" John says: "Come over
here, boys, and I'll introduce you to the captain." We walked over. John
said: "This here is preacher Miller's boy over at Petersburg. And this
here is the son of States Attorney Kirby. You know Hardy Kirby." The
captain said "Yes." John went on, "Of course you do." And then the
captain says: "I hired 'em to peel potatoes; they're goin' to St. Louis
with me." "Is that so?" said John. "Well, they're good boys, and of
course you'll fotch 'em back when you get through with 'em." "I don't
know," says the captain, "I may sell 'em in St. Louis--or adopt 'em. I
ain't got no boys of my own, and if they prove all right, good workers,
I may keep 'em for good." John laughed. Kept laughin' at everything that
was said. And finally they drank more beer and all talked together; and
the old feller that was dancin' sat down, lit a fine cigar, and began to
tell about New York. It turned out he was the fish commissioner and
lived in Havaner; but he had traveled everywhere and was a regular
gentleman. And finally he says to the captain--"Sing the 'Missouri
Harmony.'" "I will," says the captain, "if John'll play the tune." So
John played it and the captain sang.
I forgot to say that I can't remember nothin', or commit anything to
memory. But I never see such a boy as Mitch. He could learn anything,
and that's how I happen to write these songs down here. He wrote 'em out
for me afterwards and handed 'em to me. Well, this is what the captain
sang:
When in death I shall calm recline,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear.
Tell her it lived on smiles and wine
Of brightest hue while it languished here.
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow,
To sully a heart so brilliant and light,
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow
To bathe the relict from morn till night.
He sang it in kind of a sing song. Then John kept tellin' stories and
fiddlin'; and finally he struck up a tune that was more lively than
any, and the white-haired gentleman got up and danced faster and
gracefuler than ever. Then John told a story. Everybody was laughin'. By
this time the captain had Mitch on his knee, and you never did see such
fun and good friendship; and a man who'd been keepin' quiet except for
laughin' pulled me over to him and said, "You look like your dad. Your
dad is the best man in this county, the best lawyer and the best friend.
You be as good as your dad, and you're all right." I said, "Yes, sir,"
and was almost too happy to live.
Then the party kind a broke up. The old gentleman was talkin' to a fat
man, who was pretty full of beer; and John was talkin' to the captain.
Mitch and me just sat there and watched. Then I heard John ask the
captain, "When you goin' to pull out?" "Not till Saturday," said the
captain. "To-morrow or next day we may pull up to Copperas Creek; but we
won't go back till Saturday." "Wal," says John, "is that so? Not till a
Saturday?"
Mitch and me thought it was time to start to help with the dinner. So we
went away and the party seemed to break up. We got the potatoes peeled
and finally everything was cooked and all ready, and we was about to
help wait on the table as before, when one of the waiters came in and
said, "The captain wants to see you, boys." So we went in and there was
the captain at his own table with John and Col. Lambkin, and all the
rest of the men just ready to eat. And the captain says, "Here, boys,
come and sit here with us." So then we were at the captain's table, with
the waiters waitin' on us and lookin' kind of funny to see what had
happened and wonderin' why.
And at the dinner table John says: "Why don't you boys come home with
me, and then come back here a Saturday, and catch the boat? You must
visit me some time and why not now? There never was a better time."
The captain says: "That's the thing to do, boys. We're goin' up to
Copperas Creek and there ain't a thing in that. And you can go over and
have your visit, and John will bring you back. Your job will be waitin'
for you, and I promise you I'll take you to St. Louis and back to
Havaner."
"No," said Mitch, "we'll stick to our jobs." Then the captain says,
"You're fired till Saturday. I won't have you around till Saturday.
There's goin' to be an Odd Fellows' Excursion, and it's no place for
boys, and so you can make the best of it."
Then John said, "That's the thing to do, boys. I'll play the fiddle for
you; Aunt Caroline will be glad to see you, and we'll have a good time."
Mitch looked disappointed, but there we were. We couldn't stay on the
boat, there was nothin' to do in Havaner, so we gave up.
And by and by we left the boat, saying good-by to the captain, and went
with John over into town, and down to the court house to get his team to
go home.