Bixby kept his eye on the river; but a note of interest crept into his voice.
“What makes you pull your words that way?” (“pulling” being the river term for drawling), he asked.
The young man had taken a seat on the visitors' bench.
“You'll have to ask my mother,” he said, more slowly than ever. “She pulls hers, too.”
Pilot Bixby woke up and laughed; he had a keen sense of humor, and the manner of the reply amused him. His guest made another advance.
“Do you know the Bowen boys?” he asked—“pilots in the St. Louis and New Orleans trade?”
“I know them well—all three of them. William Bowen did his first steering for me; a mighty good boy, too. Had a Testament in his pocket when he came aboard; in a week's time he had swapped it for a pack of cards. I know Sam, too, and Bart.”
“Old schoolmates of mine in Hannibal. Sam and Will especially were my chums.”
“Come over and stand by the side of me,” he said. “What is your name?”
The applicant told him, and the two stood looking at the sunlit water.