“The one ahead is the ‘Ohio Beauty,’ isn’t she?”
“Yes, and the other’s the ‘Northern Belle.’ Those two race every chance they get. The ‘Belle’ is trying to get ahead and beat the ‘Beauty’ to the landing, so as to capture all this morning’s business. Look, Rhoda! You can see them turning on the hose around the smoke stacks, to keep the decks from taking fire!”
Both the steamboats were tooting their whistles and ringing their bells, the shrill sounds of the one eased a little by the sweet notes of the other. Across the clamor broke faintly the music of the bands stationed on their decks. Horace and Rhoda could see the people on each boat waving hats and handkerchiefs at the other.
“See the ‘Belle’ spurt ahead! She’ll get there first yet if the ‘Beauty’ can’t get up a little more steam!”
“And she is! Oh, Horace, see how the flames are pouring from her chimneys!”
Then, suddenly, the “Beauty” seemed to leap from the water, there was a low, booming roar, and out of a burst of flames and smoke her fragments were scattered upon the bosom of the river.
For one instant the two watchers upon the hilltop sat stunned and breathless. Then, “My God!” muttered Hardaker as he leaned to urge the horse forward.
“Hurry, Horace!” cried Rhoda. “We must get father,—he’ll want to go at once!”
They dashed down the hill at a gallop, and up the other side, and drew in at the Ware gate to find the doctor, his razor in one hand and his face covered with lather, trying to see from the veranda what had happened.
They called to him, “A steamboat explosion!” and he rushed back into his office, to reappear in a moment with his surgical case and medicine bag, wiping the lather from his face with his handkerchief.