Led by Ramsey, the amateur players, including Hugh, had stopped rehearsing and were on the skylight roof, gathered about the commodore, the Gilmores, and the bell. In their company, though below them on the forward hurricane deck, the first mate leaned bulkily against the roof on which they stood. It was his watch. Ned was up at the wheel.
As early as the evening before, a good hundred and fifty miles back down the river, the Antelope, it will be remembered, had been close on the Westwood's heels. So Gilmore reminded his wife. So Hugh needlessly reminded Ramsey. From the mate it was further learned that the pursuer had overhauled the pursued between Petit Goufre—which he and the whole company called Petty Gulf—and Grand Gulf; places named before the days of steam for their dangerous eddies. Yet, he went on to tell Ramsey, the swifter boat, with more freight to put ashore and with a larger appetite for cord-wood, had never got clean away. Even now, in full view ahead, she was down at half speed, wooding up from a barge in tow alongside. You could hear her crew singing as they trotted under their great shoulder loads of wood. The amateurs, except Hugh but including Ramsey, caught up their song and were promptly joined by a group around the bell of the Westwood as that gallant loser foamed along between the Votaress and the shore:
"Oh, if I had a scolding wife,
As sure as you are born
I'd take her down to Noo Orleans
And trade her off for corn."
Presently the Antelope cast off the emptied flat in midstream, and a redoubled whiteness behind her paddle-boxes showed full speed.
"Now we can give her a square deal!" said a youth.
"And pass her inside of an hour!" declared another.
"In Bunch's Cut-off!" ventured one to the commodore, but the commodore said the Votaress herself was hungry for wood, and the mate confirmed him by a nod.