“What boat is it?” shouted Chap, as Phil appeared on the shore. “We can’t make her out.”
“The Thomas Wistar,” cried Phil. “Come ashore for me!”
There was a small row-boat fastened to the scow, and into this Phœnix jumped and ferried Phil over to the scow.
“I brought our little boat down,” said Chap, “because I didn’t know but the scow might be aground, and I want to see what I can find out about this thing before the war opens. I hope nobody is aboard the Wistar. She looks as if she was bound to burn up.”
The burning steamboat, which was coming down the river with the wind and the tide, presented a grand spectacle. Great clouds of black smoke arose from her, which, every now and then, were lighted up by flashes of flame.
The wind was a little behind her, on her port side, and as she floated down, turned partly sideways to the current, it blew the heavy clouds of smoke in front of her, sometimes almost concealing her bow and paddle-wheels from view.
The fire, which broke out as she lay at her wharf that morning, had got beyond control, and she had been cut loose and set adrift for fear that, on account of the high wind, the fire might spread to other vessels, and to the buildings on the river-front.
“I don’t believe anybody is aboard of her,” said Phil. “There must have been time for all hands to get off. If any people were on her there’d be boats coming down to take them off.”
“There isn’t any steamboat in town, except the old tub of a ferry-boat,” said Chap, “and they’d be afraid to bring her anywhere near, for fear she’d take fire herself.”
“I wonder how far she’ll float down the river,” said Phœnix, “before she burns to the water’s edge and sinks?”