Gleazen shook his head.
"There's fair shelter," Matterson persisted.
Gleazen waved his hand at the black sky. "But not shelter enough," he said.
"If we go up the river," said Matterson in a low voice, "the news will spread from here to the hills."
Gleazen smiled unpleasantly. "Look off the larboard bow," he said.
We all turned, as did Matterson, and I for one, at first, saw nothing except the vines and great trees on which fell the shadows of the premature twilight that foreran the storm. But Matterson cried out, and Arnold Lamont, seeing my blank expression, touched my arm and pointed at a dark lane of water and said, "See—there—there!"
Then I saw something moving, and made out a canoe. In the canoe was a big black negro, with round eyes and flat nose and huge, puffed-out lips. The negro was paddling. Then I saw something else. I could not believe my eyes. I turned to the others, and knew by their faces that they and Arnold had seen it, too, and that Seth Upham had not.
Then Gleazen, who was looking hard at Matterson, said with an oath, "The beer is spilt. It's up the river for us."
And Matterson nodded.