“Aye,” replied the other, who was fully aware of it.
“And a blackish, thunderish, damned storm behind you, I say.”
The traveller knew that too, and as he believed that the conversation could as well be carried on while crossing over, he added:
“Make haste, I pray, my good man; I am in a hurry, and I should not like to pass the night here in these canes for a hundred dollars.”
“Nor I, for a thousand,” answered Gibson. “Well, stranger, what will you give me to ferry you over?”
“The usual fare, I suppose—two or three dollars.”
“Why, that may do for a poor man in fine weather, and having plenty of time to spare, but I be blessed if I take you for ten times that money now that you are in so great a hurry and have such a storm behind.”
The traveller knew at once he had to deal with a blackguard, but as he was himself an Arkansas man of the genuine breed, he resolved to give him a “Roland for an Oliver.”
“It is a shameful imposition,” he cried; “how much do you want after all?”
“Why, not a cent less than fifty dollars.”