WISHING to visit some portions of Iowa, I started up the Mississippi in June, on a boat running regularly between Saint Louis and Keokuk, an Iowa town or city with a population of eight thousand, situated at the mouth of the Des Moines river. It is two hundred and twenty-four miles above Saint Louis.
Only one funny thing happened during my voyage from Saint Louis to Keokuk, and, probably, one of the parties concerned could not have been led to agree that even that was funny. It occurred during the day following our departure from Saint Louis, while the boat was lying at the landing at Quincy, a city of twenty-five thousand souls, on the Illinois shore.
The boat laid there for half an-hour; I know not what for, as no freight was being shipped or put ashore. During that brief half-hour, two sharpers came aboard. They were confederates, or “pals,” but pretended not to know each other. In fact, one of them, whom I shall style Number One—although they were both number one rogues—came aboard a few minutes before the other, whom I shall call Number Two. He did not go up to the cabin deck, but stood on the boiler deck, talking with the deck-hands—most of whom were darkeys—and asking such questions as were calculated to convince any one that he was badly green.
By and by, Number Two, Esquire, came aboard, carrying a kind of padlock in his hand, and, with a respectful manner, said to Number One:
“My friend, can you tell me how soon this boat will go up the river?”
“No, sir,” replied Number One; “I just came aboard.”
“She go up de riber in a little bit,” put in one of the darkeys that were lounging idly about the bulkhead.
“Thank you,” said Number Two, who appeared to be a perfect gentleman. He was walking up the steps leading to the cabin deck, when Number One called out:
“Stranger—excuse me—but are you the gentleman I saw up in town with the new patent lock?”
“Yes,” returned Number Two, pausing on the stairs: “this is it.”