were stilled; slowly his twitching muscles quieted. He felt tired. He
breathed deeply, like a man who had emerged from the depths of great
water.
Then he filled his mouth with chewing tobacco and grinned.
“Lawd!” he chuckled. “I’s powerful glad it come out de way it done.”
His mind quickly reviewed each incident of this exciting day, and as he
watched the sun sink below the horizon, he announced his conclusion:
“When Marse Tom tole me to leave dis town, he jes’ nachelly overspoke
hisse’f!”
The Cruise of the Mud Hen.
Unthinking people assert that negroes do not think.
Nevertheless, when Skeeter Butts, by methods peculiarly his own, became
the high-proud owner of a good, cheap automobile, he permitted only
three friends to ride with him,--Vinegar Atts, Hitch Diamond, and
Figger Bush.
Figger was necessary because his superb voice added to the others,
completed the most melodious male quartette in Louisiana. Hitch Diamond
as a prize-fighter, Vinegar Atts as an ex-pugilist who had been called
to preach, each possessed the physical strength of a forty-horse-power
mule. Skeeter needed them to lift his automobile out of the mud and to
push it through the sand.
Was not that a thoughtful selection of first-aids to the helpless?
Truly, that outfit was a fearful and wonderful thing.
When those four negroes climbed into that car and began to sing to
the accompaniment of a mechanism which sounded like a saw-mill, a
cotton-gin, and a boiler factory loaded upon a log-train chasing a herd
of bleating billy-goats along the public highway, the effect produced
made the pious cross themselves, the ungodly “cuss,” and the little
children run to their mothers, whimpering with fright.
A white man might think a thousand years and never think up an
arrangement like that.
Then to show that his mental incubator was still capable of hatching
out little fuzzy, two-legged chicken-headed thoughts, Skeeter bought a
steamboat!
“Whar is Hitch Diamond at, Kunnel?” Skeeter asked of a handsome,
white-haired gentleman standing in front of the Tickfall post-office.
“He’s up at my house, unloading fireworks from a dray,” Colonel
Gaitskill answered.
“Hitch don’t go back to wuck to-day, do he?” Skeeter inquired in a
shocked tone.
“Certainly not,” Gaitskill smiled. “This is a national holiday. I
imagine Hitch has finished that little job now. Are you folks going off
to make a day of it?”
“Yes, suh, us is fixin’ to cel’brate, too!” Skeeter chuckled.
“Do you know why we celebrate the Fourth of July, Skeeter?” Gaitskill
asked with a smile.
Skeeter knew. He also knew that “Fighting Tom” Gaitskill stood before
him, and this old soldier had not fought with the heroes of ’76. He
tempered his answer to a hero of the Lost Cause.
“Shore, Marse Tom!” he chuckled. “Dis is de day dat our white marsters
kilt all de dam-yanks!”
Gaitskill laughed.
“Your answer is a credit to your tact and diplomacy, Skeeter, but it
certainly upsets the records of history. Where are you going?”
“We’s gwine down to de river.”
“I want you and Hitch Diamond to help me with the fire-works to-night,”
Gaitskill said. “You get back by dark.”
“Shore, Marse Tom!” Skeeter cackled. “We ain’t gwine miss no free show.
I’ll go git Hitch an’ de rest of de bunch now!”
The seven-mile road to the Mississippi River was smooth and level and
was a favorite with Vinegar and Hitch, who preferred riding to climbing
out to lift or push. So, one hour later, the automobile quartette stood
beside a stump on the banks of that majestic stream and sang of the
time “when de water’s so low, de bullfrog roll up his pants jes’ so,
and wade acrost from sho’ to sho’; while over in de channel de catfish
say: ‘We’s gittin’ plum’ freckle-faced down our way.’”
Six miles up the river at the bend, a little steamboat whistle squalled
at them through the still July atmosphere. The quartette promptly sat
down and watched the boat’s approach.
The boat was about thirty feet long and about eighteen feet wide, was
built with a flat keel which made it float on the top of the water like
a cigar box, and was propelled by a paddle wheel in the rear about as
big as a barrel.
Some river fishermen own such boats, living in them, and peddling their
fish to the negroes on the plantations along the river. The vessel
could ride the current down-stream and make six miles an hour; going
up-stream, it hugged the bank, navigated the slack water, and got there
as soon as it could. Three miles an hour up-stream was going some.
As the boat drew near, the quartette noticed that the machinery was
protected by a rudely-built roof, and the crew consisted of one man who
sat on a three-legged stool, smoked a pipe, shoveled coal, steered,
and pulled the whistle-cord, and still had plenty of time to watch the
scenery.
“Dat’s de life fer me,” Skeeter Butts exclaimed. “Up ’n’ down de river,
fishin’ an’ swimmin’ an’ sleepin’. Ef I owned a steamboat like dat, I’d
go right back to Tickfall an’ ax all my friends good-bye.”
“Me, too!” Vinegar Atts rumbled. “Ef I had a boat, I’d trabbel
dis river givin’ religium advices to all de niggers on de river
plantations. I’d preach eve’y night an’ I wouldn’t fergit to ax some
hones’ brudder to pass de hat.”
“Steamboats is got some good p’ints over autermobiles,” Hitch Diamond
growled. “You don’t got to lift ’em outen de mud or push ’em up-hill
through de sand.”
“Ef I had a boat,” Figger Bush cackled, pulling at his little
shoe-brush mustache, “I’d buy me a derby hat an’ a grassaphome, an’ a
long-tail prancin’-albert coat, an’--an’--I’d climb up on top of it an’
sing all de songs I knows.”
The whistle squalled again.
“She’s fixin’ to make a landin’!” Skeeter exclaimed.
The boat passed them on the current, then turned and puffed along the
bank through the still water opposite to where they were sitting. A
black, chunky, bull-necked negro, the whites of whose eyes shone across
the water like china door-knobs, hurled a rope toward them.
“Gimme a turn aroun’ dat stump!” he bellowed, as he stopped the
machinery.
While the quartet tied the boat the owner stepped into a little canoe
and paddled ashore.
“Howdy, brudders!” he bellowed, as he sat down with them. “My name is
Pipe Smash.”
“Us is got names, too,” Skeeter Butts proclaimed, as he introduced
himself and his friends. “We been watchin’ you’ boat an’ wishin’ dat we
had one.”
Smash hesitated just a second before answering. An eager look flashed
in his eyes and vanished. Then he said:
“’Tain’t such a awful rotten dawg’s life fer a nigger--livin’ on you’
own boat. I’s jes’ mournin’ in my mind because I’s got to quit it.”
“How come?” Skeeter asked.
“I’s gittin’ married real soon an’ de gal specify dat she don’t want no
home whut floats aroun’ permiscus so dat de chickens don’t know whar to
come to roost. She wants me to sell out an’ sottle down on dry land.”
“Dat’s a powerful sensible notion,” Skeeter Butts proclaimed, as his
appraising eyes searched the steamboat. “Is you foun’ a buyer yit?”
“Naw!” Pipe Smash said disgustedly. “White folks won’t buy no nigger’s
boat, an’ niggers ain’t got no money.”
“How financial do a nigger got to be to pick up a good, cheap,
han’-me-down boat?” Skeeter asked cautiously.
“Well, suh, I figger it out dis way,” Pipe Smash said, boring the
middle finger of his right hand into the palm of his left hand for
emphasis. “I bought dat whole boat jes’ as she floats from a white man
whut picked a fuss wid de cote-house an’ had to run in a direction whar
de river didn’t go. It costed me two hundred dollars ten year ago, an’
is some wore out. One hundred dollars in cash spondulix gits her now.”
Skeeter glanced at the faces of his three friends and each responded
with a slight nod. Skeeter made a careful advance.
“Ef I jes’ knowed somepin ’bout how to run a steamboat--” he began.
“Don’t none of you niggers know nothin’ ’bout steam-engines?” Pipe
asked, in a peculiar voice.
“Naw!” they said in a chorus.
A peculiar expression passed over Pipe’s face.
Skeeter’s quick eyes caught the look, and he rightly concluded that
Pipe was going to take advantage of their ignorance to cheat them.
“’Tain’t no trouble to learn how to run ’em,” Pipe remarked. “All you
got to do is to keep fire in de furnace an’ water in de b’iler, an’
hol’ to de steerin’-wheel an’ stay in de river.”
“Dat sounds easy,” Skeeter said, as he rose to his feet. “Less paddle
out an’ take a look at dat boat.”
When they were all aboard and the engine was puffing laboriously up the
river, Pipe Smash looked at the four grinning negroes with an air of
triumph.
He knew his steamboat was sold.
* * * * *
They were traveling about as fast as a lame man could walk, but there
was an exhilarating throb to the engine, and a cheerful slap-slap to
the paddle-wheel, and the river went past them instead of taking them
with it, and by shutting their eyes for five minutes and then opening
them they could see that they were actually gaining on the scenery.
And the scenery would set an artist wild: a sky like a soap-bubble, and
high in the dome a buzzard sailing like a speck of dust, a river like a
broad, flowing ribbon of old gold, and close to the levees on each side
the woods, dense, black, moss-hung and funereal, absorbing so little of
the sun’s light that the negroes could hear the call of the night-owls
and the voice of the whip-poor-will.
Suddenly Skeeter’s high soprano voice ran out across the water, the
other voices joined, and the woods echoed back the music:
“When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrers like sea-billers roll--
Whutever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, wid my soul.”
“Whut is de name of dis boat called, Pipe?” Skeeter asked at the end of
their song.
“’Tain’t got no name,” Pipe answered.
“Dat won’t do,” Vinegar Atts bellowed, as he looked with proprietary
eye upon the vessel. “Less call her by some high-soundin’ name.”
“Less call her de _Skeeter Butts_?” the little barkeeper promptly
suggested.
“Naw!” the three other men whooped.
Skeeter giggled.
“I figger dar will be three votes agin any yuther nigger’s name in dis
bunch,” he said. “Less call her de _Hen-Scratch_.”
“Naw!” the trio bellowed. “A saloom ain’t no fitten name fer a boat.”
“Less call her de _Shoo-fly_.”
“Naw!” the bunch howled. “We don’t name no boat after a Mefdis
meetin’-house.”
Finally Skeeter said:
“I motions dat we leave it to Pipe Smash to name de boat fer us!”
“Dat’s right! Gib us a good name, Pipe!”
Pipe scratched his woolly head and thought. Then he said:
“Is you niggers made acquaintance wid a coot?”
“Suttinly.”
“Is you ever seed how a coot starts to fly? He leans fur back like he
was restin’ on his tail den he takes a runnin’ shoot----”
“Shore! We knows!” the men interrupted.
“Dis boat gits its start by shovin’ wid its tail,” Pipe resumed.
“Furthermo’, dis boat, like a coot, is a lan’ an’ water bird.
Accawdin’ to dat notion, I votes dat we call dis boat after de nigger
word fer a coot----”
“De _Mud Hen_!” the quartet whooped triumphantly. “De _Mud Hen_!”
From that moment our four friends were consumed with desire to own the
boat which had received such a high-sounding and appropriate name.
Skeeter presided at a lengthy consultation, then came forward to the
pilot-wheel and counted one hundred dollars into Pipe Smash’s greedy
palm.
“Each of us chips in twenty-five dollars, Pipe,” Skeeter explained.
“Dat’s a fine way to do,” Pipe grinned. “Is you elected who is de head
boss leader yit?”
“Naw,” Skeeter said. “We ain’t got dat fur.”
“Ef you ’vide up yo’ jobs an’ decide who is gwine be who, I’ll learn
you how to run de boat an’ esplain each man’s job to him,” Pipe
proposed. “Atter dat, I’ll step off.”
“I announces myse’f de captain of dis boat!” Skeeter Butts yelled. “Any
objections?”
“I’s de commondore,” Hitch Diamond bellowed.
“I’s de skipper,” Figger Bush quacked.
“My job is cut out for me,” Vinegar Atts grinned. “I’s de fust high
exalted chaplain.”
“Whut do de chaplain do?” Skeeter Butts wanted to know.
“He sets down an’ sings religium toons ontil somebody dies,” Vinegar
informed him. “Den he gibs de dead man religium advices, ties a lump
of coal to his foots, an’ draps him in de ribber.”
“Dat’s a easy job!” Figger cackled.
“’Tain’t so,” Vinegar growled. “Plenty accidunts happen on boats--de
b’iler busts, de boat snags out de bottom on a stump an’ sinks, de boat
ketches on fire an’ burns up, an’ niggers falls overboard an’ gets
drowndead.”
“Shut up, Revun!” Skeeter Butts barked. “Dat kind of graveyard talk
gibs me trouble in my mind.”
“Prepare to git ready to die!” Vinegar bellowed dramatically. “Dis
river is ’bout fawty miles deep!”
“Whut you figger on doin’ as commondore, Hitch?” Skeeter asked.
“I sets in de middle of dis boat to balunce de load,” the giant
prize-fighter announced. “I’ll watch you fiddle wid dat little
steer-wheel, an’ between times, mebbe I’ll shovel a leetle coal.”
“Whut you gwine do as skipper, Figger?” Butts inquired next.
“I skips all de hard jobs, an’ all de easy wuck dat I kin,” Figger
snickered. “I don’t mind standin’ up in front an’ watchin’ fer snags
an’ allergaters. I’s gwine hab a fence rail tied under each arm an’
stan’ straddle of a log. Ef dis boat sinks, Figger figgers on floatin’
to land!”
“I’s gwine lay in some fence-rails, too,” Vinegar Atts declared. “I’ll
need a whole wood-pile of ’em.”
“It’ll take a whole log-raft to float me,” Hitch Diamond decided.
“I’ll fix it togedder as soon as I git back to land.”
“Whut good will a lot of fence-rails do you niggers ef dis old engine
busts?” Pipe Smash inquired in a tone of comment. “When a steamboat
blows up dar ain’t enough of it left over fer any fool nigger to set
on.”
“Dat’s so,” Skeeter Butts replied uneasily, trying to grin with
stiffening lips. “Does dey bust up pretty frequent?”
“Naw, suh, dey never busts up but once,” Pipe Smash grinned. “Once is a
plum’ plenty fer any kind of boat.”
“I mean does pretty many boats bust up?” Skeeter explained.
“All of ’em--soon or late,” Smash chuckled.
“Mebbe I hadn’t oughter been so spry ’bout buyin’ dis boat,” Skeeter
mourned, as he looked down into the muddy water and shuddered.
“I wouldn’t say dat till I learnt how to run de boat,” Smash responded.
“Come here an’ take holt of dis wheel.”
Smash had shrewdly waited until the right time to give this invitation.
They were now riding down the middle of the river on the current.
The boat was still lacking in speed, but it moved as smoothly as a
high-powered automobile.
“Huh,” Skeeter chuckled. “Dis here is a snap. I feel like I been
runnin’ steamboats all my life. Gimme elbow room accawdin’ to my
muscle, niggers, an’ watch Cap’n Skeeter Butts make de _Mud Hen_ flit!”
Hitch Diamond, the commodore, reached for the coal shovel.
“Drap dat shovel, Hitch!” Pipe Smash grinned. “Coal costs a heap money
an’ you don’t want to waste it goin’ down-stream. De time to shovel
ain’t yit.”
“Dat’s right,” Hitch agreed. “It ’pears to me like we is all got a
snap. I shore feels comferble.”
“I got a easy job, too!” Vinegar proclaimed. “’Tain’t no real trouble
to set down an’ wait fer a corp’.”
“All you niggers, come here!” Pipe Smash exclaimed. “I wants to press
somepin’ powerful heavy on yo’ minds, an’ ef you fergits it offen yo’
minds, I tells you right now dat Revun Atts won’t wait long to git a
fust-rate corp’.”
“Whut’s dat?” Skeeter chattered.
“You see dat contraption up on dat engine whut looks like a clock?”
Pipe Smash asked.
“Yes, suh!”
“Dat is called de steam-gage. Dat shows how much steam is in de
b’ilers. Now dis engine won’t tote but sixty pounds of steam an’ be
plum’ safe--you see dat indicator p’ints to sixty now.”
“Dat’s right!” Hitch Diamond corroborated.
“Whut do us do ef we git over sixty?” Skeeter asked tremblingly.
“Ef you is puffin’ up-stream, you kin risk sixty-five,” Pipe Smash told
him. “But atter you pass dat number--good-night!”
“Dat ain’t tellin’ me whut to do!” Skeeter snapped.
Smash scratched his woolly head, loosened his soiled shirt-collar by
running his fingers around his fat neck, and sighed.
“I don’t know whut is did wid dem succumstances,” Smash declared. “I
ain’t never loss my good sense an’ got up dat high yit. But I got it
figgered out dat a real quick nigger could do two things: he kin open
de furnace, rake out de hot coals, set de boat on fire an’ burn her up;
or, he kin jump in de river an’ let de boat float ontil she busts!”
“Hear dem words!” Vinegar Atts bawled. “I knowed I had a good chance to
orate over a corp’!”
Skeeter Butts looked greatly scared for a minute, then he took a big
breath and rallied.
“Dat ain’t so awful dangersome,” he said. “I bet you niggers seben
dollars per each dat dat indicator don’t never reach sixty no
more--open dat furnace door, Hitch, an’ cool de b’iler!”
The commodore lost no time in obeying the captain.
“Dat ain’t de right way to do!” Pipe Smash told them. “Ef you open de
furnace door, de b’iler gits hotter--dat makes de fire draw better!”
“Shet dat furnace door, Hitch, you fool!” Skeeter barked. “My Lawd,
you’s gittin’ us ready to bust!”
The commodore shut the door.
Then Pipe Smash gave them another jolt:
“You all is got one mo’ little jigger to watch, niggers!” he said,
pointing to a glass tube. “Dat little, round, glass bottle is de
water-gage. You wanter put water in de b’iler till dat water-gage
stands half-full all de time. Ef dat little bottle ever goes plum’ dry,
de buzzards will be pickin’ yo’ bones outen de top of de cypress trees
along dis river!”
“Hear dat, now!” Vinegar Atts whooped. “Dis here chaplain shore has cut
out a hard-wuckin’ job fer hisse’f!”
“Shut up, Revun!” Skeeter snapped. “You ack like you wus proud dis boat
wus gwine bust.”
“’Tain’t so!” Vinegar protested. “I done invested my whole June sal’ry
from de Shoo-fly chu’ch in dis boat!”
Skeeter’s eyes lit on Figger Bush.
“Figger,” he said, “you done nominate yo’se’f de skipper--you skip
aroun’ here an’ sot yo’ eye on dis glass bottle!”
“She won’t dry up as long as I rides in dis boat!” Figger said with
conviction. “I wouldn’t take my eye offen dat bottle ef a allergater
tickled me wid his tail!”
“I got a few mo’ advices,” Pipe Smash announced. “You wants to keep
de lily-pads, snags, an’ wire-grass outen de paddle-wheel an’ de
steerin’-gear. Ef you don’t you’ll git kotch in de current an’ float
plum’ to de Gulf of Mexico.”
“Hear dem words!” Vinegar Atts whooped. “All you niggers better be on
de mourners’ bench a gittin’ religium!”
“Shut up, Vinegar!” Skeeter wailed. “You set behime dis boat an’ watch
dat paddle-wheel.”
“I shore will!” Vinegar declared. “An’ de fust time she fouls up
you’ll see Vinegar floatin’ to’des de shore straddle of his own
coat-tail! Dis chaplain don’t take no chances wid hisse’f--I don’t need
no visit to de Gulf.”
“I cain’t remember nothin’ mo’ to say,” Pipe Smash said, scratching his
woolly head. “Mebbe I oughter say dis: Keep all de bolts screwed up
real tight.”
“Dat’s my job!” Skeeter declared. “I don’t trust dese igernunt niggers
wid no monkey-wrench.”
“Dat’s right, Cap’n!” Pipe Smash applauded. “You keep dat monkey-wrench
in yo’ hand an’ ’tend to dat job wid yo’ eyes wide open, or you’ll
shore hab to paddle yo’se’f ashore wid yo’ hands!”
They passed the spot on the shore where, four hours earlier, the boat
had been tied to a stump.
Pipe Smash glanced up at the sun.
“I ’speck it’s ’bout time I wus steppin’ off an’ lettin’ you-alls
hab yo’ boat,” he said. “I’s gwine to de railroad track an’ ketch de
log-train fer Kerlerac. Dar’s a big Fo’th of July nigger dance at
Kerlerac to-night.”
Skeeter ran the boat past the stump, gave the wheel a turn, the current
swept the rear of the boat around, and Skeeter puffed up to the landing
with the skill of an expert pilot.
“Well did!” Smash applauded, as he leaped into the canoe and paddled to
shore with the line. “You ack like you been runnin’ steamboats all yo’
life!”
When the men stood once more upon the ground they shook hands all
around and were perfectly happy.
“Now, fellers,” Skeeter said, “I motions dat we goes back to Tickfall
in de auto, gits us a lot of grub an’ fixin’s, an’ come right back to
de boat fer a long ride.”
“Ef you’s plannin’ to take a long ride, fellers, mebbe I could do you a
las’ kind favor by tightenin’ up all de machinery,” Pipe Smash said. “I
got a little time yit.”
“De Lawd bless you, my brudder!” Vinegar Atts howled. “Dat would shore
be a Christyum ack.”
“Be shore an’ watch dat little bolt back behime de steam-gage, cullud
folks,” Smash grinned. “De jumpin’ of de steam loosens up dat bolt mo’
dan any.”
“You go on an’ tight her up, brudder!” Vinegar urged. “Put yo’ muscle
to it right!”
“Good-bye, niggers!” Pipe Smash howled. “You won’t see me when you come
back. I hopes you’ll like de boat an’ hab good luck!”
As Pipe climbed on the boat the automobile roared the departure of the
happy quartet.
* * * * *
Two hours later the automobile party returned to the river.
They unloaded four baskets of food and four large watermelons. Figger
Bush had advocated bringing a jug, but Skeeter Butts had vetoed the
suggestion on the ground that it might offend the Reverend Vinegar
Atts, chaplain. Skeeter knew better than that, but he saw no reason
why he should furnish the bunch with a gallon of liquor when he did not
drink himself.
“How we gwine git dis truck to dat boat?” Hitch Diamond growled,
looking across the water in surprise.
“How did dat Pipe Smash git to land when de little canoe is tied up
agin de side of dat steamboat?” Figger Bush asked.
“He come in hand over hand on de rope,” Skeeter Butts informed him.
“Pipe knowed ef he tied dat canoe to de land some nigger would steal
it.”
“Dat’s a fack,” Hitch Diamond bellowed. “’Taint safe to leave nothin’
aroun’ whar a po’ nigger kin set down an’ trabbel in it.”
Skeeter Butts laid hold upon the line and passed over to the boat
swinging by his hands as agile as a monkey. Then he put to shore in the
canoe and ferried his friends across. Afterward, he brought in the food
supplies.
“We’ll trabbel up de river fust, niggers,” Captain Skeeter Butts
announced, as he and Hitch Diamond busied themselves with the fire in
the furnace. “Soon as I gits a little practice wid runnin’ her, we’ll
turn down stream an’ paddle plum’ to de Gulf of Mexico.”
As far as they could see, they were the only living creatures on the
river. The noon sun blazed in the heavens and made the deck of the boat
like a furnace; the heat reflected from the water was simply dreadful.
A white man would have fallen with heat prostration in an hour, but
these children of the sun laughed and sang and shouted, and stood in
the blaze of light, grinning, white-toothed, and perfectly happy.
They ate watermelon, gobbled their lunches, smoked cheap cigars, and
talked like a lot of gobbling turkeys. Finally Vinegar Atts walked
to the edge of the boat and looked down in the muddy swirl of the
Mississippi.
“Dis water looks heap deeper to me since dat Pipe Smash went away,” he
contemplated. “An’ I bet it’s powerful wet, too!”
“You git a rockin’-chair outen de bood-war an’ set down, Revun!”
Captain Butts commanded. “I don’t wanter hear you startin’ no doubts!”
“Dar ain’t nothin’ in de drawin’-room but a three-leg stool,” Vinegar
mourned. “’Taint got nothin’ to rest my back agin.”
“Let her go!” Hitch Diamond, the commodore, bellowed in a voice which
could be heard a mile.
Skeeter Butts laid one hand upon the wheel and with the other slightly
opened the throttle.
The paddle-wheel spanked the water for three revolutions, then there
was a backward jerk which loosened every negro’s teeth.
Hitch Diamond fell against the furnace door on his hands and knees.
Figger Bush went crashing against the fragile side of the vessel,
Skeeter Butts draped himself over the pilot-wheel with a loud squall,
and the stool on which Vinegar Atts sat turned over, upsetting the
dignified chaplain and landing him on his back, where he lay bellowing
like a cow and waving his hands and feet toward the blue sky.
Two watermelons and four baskets of grub rolled overboard followed by
Vinegar’s precious stove-pipe hat, which bobbed up and down on the
water like a diminutive battleship monitor.
The little boat was tugging at the end of her rope like a lassoed
mustang.
“Stop her!” Hitch Diamond, the commodore, bellowed in a voice which
could be heard two miles. “We fergot to untie de boat from dat stump!”
Skeeter had already stopped the engine, and the negroes lost no time in
releasing the line.