“Lawdymussy!” Vinegar Atts howled. “Whar is dem dinner-baskits an’ my stove-pipe preachin’ hat?”
Skeeter arose to his feet with a nonchalant air, shaded his eyes with his hand and looked far down the river. A black hat bobbed merrily upon the waves, followed by four baskets and two watermelons.
A loud wail arose from the stranded boat, the loudest wail emitted from the throat of Vinegar at the loss of his precious hat.
“O Lawd!” he mourned. “Dat’s de best money-collectin’ hat I ever did own. A nigger would look down in dat black, silk hat an’ drap in a dollar jes’ to hear it blop!”
“’Twon’t be no trouble to git it back agin ef you pull us outen de mud,” Skeeter suggested artfully. “We’ll go on up to de bend, den turn aroun’ an’ chase our dinner-baskits an’ yo’ hat!”
“Dat’s de way to do!” the commodore and chaplain readily agreed, as they climbed into the canoe. “We’ll shore pull her off!”
One half hour of herculean effort on the part of the two men with the tow-line, accompanied by the steady coughing of the one-lunged steamboat, and the wailing admonitions of Skeeter and Figger, and then the boat floated free. Hitch and Vinegar climbed back on deck, fell exhausted, and lay flat on their backs looking at the blazing sky above them.
For two hours more, they paddled up the river without mishap. Skeeter Butts began to grin.
“I’s ketchin’ on, fellers!” he exclaimed. “I feels as scrupshus as a blue-jay wid a fresh worm!”
It would have been better for Skeeter, had he watched what was going on in the river. Just as he reached the bend, six miles above the Tickfall landing, there broke upon the still air, two loud, soul-thrilling whistles, one before them up the river, the other behind them.