MINERVA

lightning kept whimpering, and by-and-by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating, and we made for it. It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again. We seen a light now away down to the right, on shore. So I said I would go for it. The skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had stole there on the wreck. We hustled it on to the raft in a pile, and I told Jim to float along down, and show a light when he judged he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till I come; then I manned my oars and shoved for the light. As I got down towards it, three or four more showed—up on a hillside. It was a village. I closed in above the shore light, and laid on my oars and floated. As I went by, I see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a double-hull ferry-boat. I skimmed around for the watchman, a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by-and-by I found him roosting on the bitts, forward, with his head down between his knees. I gave his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to cry. He stirred up, in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was only me, he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says: “Hello, what’s up? Don’t cry, bub. What’s the trouble?” I says: “Pap, and mam, and sis, and—” Then I broke down. He says: “Oh, dang it now, _don’t_ take on so; we all has to have our troubles, and this’n ’ll come out all right. What’s the matter with ’em?” “They’re—they’re—are you the watchman of the boat?” “Yes,” he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. “I’m the captain and the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and head deck-hand; and sometimes I’m the freight and passengers. I ain’t as rich as old Jim Hornback, and I can’t be so blame’ generous and good to Tom, Dick and Harry as what he is, and slam around money the way he does; but I’ve told him a many a time ’t I wouldn’t trade places with him; for, says I, a sailor’s life’s the life for me, and I’m derned if _I’d_ live two mile out o’ town, where there ain’t nothing ever goin’ on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of it. Says I—” I broke in and says: “They’re in an awful peck of trouble, and—” “_Who_ is?” “Why, pap and mam and sis and Miss Hooker; and if you’d take your ferry-boat and go up there—” “Up where? Where are they?” “On the wreck.” “What wreck?” “Why, there ain’t but one.” “What, you don’t mean the _Walter Scott?_” “Yes.” “Good land! what are they doin’ _there_, for gracious sakes?” “Well, they didn’t go there a-purpose.” “I bet they didn’t! Why, great goodness, there ain’t no chance for ’em if they don’t git off mighty quick! Why, how in the nation did they ever git into such a scrape?” “Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting up there to the town—” “Yes, Booth’s Landing—go on.” “She was a-visiting there at Booth’s Landing, and just in the edge of the evening she started over with her nigger woman in the horse-ferry to stay all night at her friend’s house, Miss What-you-may-call-her I disremember her name—and they lost their steering-oar, and swung around and went a-floating down, stern first, about two mile, and saddle-baggsed on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger woman and the horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker she made a grab and got aboard the wreck. Well, about an hour after dark we come along down in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn’t notice the wreck till we