We ran on to a small sand-bar, which delayed us for some time, but got off with the oars. After a hard row against the current, we entered the mouth of the river, which was not over fifty yards wide. We heard the sound of music from among the decayed ruins of a pier that extended into the lake. Seated on some chunks of broken limestone, between the rotting piles, we saw a gray-haired colored man of about sixty. He was playing “Money Musk” on a mouth organ. Near him a cane fish-pole was stuck in among the rocks, and extended out over the water. He was whiling away the time between bites with his music.
“I bet that feller ain’t no nigro,” remarked Sipes. “He looks like a white man wot’s been smoked.”
The solitary fisherman regarded us with an expectant look, as we tied up to one of the piles.
“Good mawnin’, gen’lemen! Does you-all happ’n to have sump’n to drink in yo’ boat?”
“We ain’t got nothin’ wet but wot’s leaked in. You c’n ’ave some o’ that if you want it,” Sipes replied with some asperity. “Wot’s the matter with the lake if you’r’ thirsty?”
“Ah beg yo’ pa’don, but you-all looked like gen’lemen that might have sump’n with you. This ain’t thirst. Ah got a misery, an’ it ’curred to me you might like to save ma life. Ah ain’t had no breakfus’, an Ah feels weak.”
“Listen at that smoke,” said Sipes, in an undertone. “Wonder if ’e thinks we’r’ a float’n’ s’loon?”
Evidently discouraged over his prospects with Sipes, the old darky turned to me.
“Say, Boss, will you gimme a qua’tah, so Ah c’n go an’ git some breakfus’?”
We thought it better to give him some “breakfus’” from the boat, and, as it was lunch time, we passed part of our eatables over to him.