“Aye, aye, sir. Go forward, Mr. Kelson, and see to those head lines; take the cook, steward, and carpenter with you to haul them in. You, Joe, tumble that man of yours into the forecastle and get ashore yourself, or you’ll have a chance to take a trip down to the Southwest Pass! Let go the breast lines! Stand by forward!”
We cast off, the tugboat steamed ahead, the strong current struck us on the starboard bow, we slowly turned, and went on our way down the river, leaving the long line of twinkling lights of the Crescent City behind us.
The next morning at daylight the chief mate and I, after serious difficulties, succeeded in “rousing out” our befuddled crew, and then commenced clearing up decks and getting ready for making sail, for we were nearly abreast of Pilot Town, and would soon be over the bar.
Thirteen hard-looking subjects presented themselves from the forecastle, after some little time, but where was the fourteenth? A diligent search of the men’s quarters was at last rewarded by the discovery of the missing man—but such a man! A wretched-looking, frowsy-headed little creature, bandy-legged and narrow chested, a most unmistakable landsman, dressed in thin, blue cottonade trousers with a long-skirted, threadbare alpaca coat, buttoned over a calico shirt; with no waistcoat, or hat, and with well-worn lasting shoes on his feet. Trembling, blear-eyed, wild with evident astonishment at his surroundings, this unfortunate wretch was haled up before the mate by the carpenter, who had found him still asleep under one of the berths, hidden behind a large sea chest.
“Who the devil are you?” said Mr. Ackley roughly, looking contemptuously at the man, shivering in the chill of the early morning.
“Vere you vos takin’ me?” inconsequently replied the man, staring about him. “I want to go by my home. Lisbeth must ogspect me. Please stop the boat, lieber Herr; I must go home!”
“He’s got ’em bad, sir,” said the carpenter; “that New Orleans whiskey is mean stuff, sure. He’s got the ’trimmins, sir!”
“Who shipped you, you measly dog?” shouted the mate, paying no attention to the carpenter. “Come, speak up, or I’ll lather the hide off of you! Who shipped you I say?” raising a rope in a threatening manner.
“Please, goot gentleman, don’t strike me! I vant to go home. Lisbeth must ogspect me long ago. Why did you bring me here, goot gentleman?”
“I’ll ‘goot gentleman’ you! Here, Chips, take this fellow and put him under the head pump. Freshen him up a bit, and then I’ll warm him with a rope’s end and see if I can’t get some sense into him!”