“A few—there’s a putty considerable drift comin’ down. That last spell o’ wet has done it, I reckon. I han’t seed many sawyers, but you’d better keep a sharp look-out. Thar’s bound to be some o’ ’em settled in the bend.”
“I’ll watch ’em—say, what boat was that?”
“Massoury Belle.”
“Oh! she’s in the Ohio trade now?”
“So I’ve heerd.”
“I thought they wouldn’t run her to Orleans agin. She aint the style for below.”
“No, she wa’nt big enough. Old What’s-his-name has bought her, and’s goin’ to run her reg’larly ’tween Saint Louis and Cinc’natti. She’s jest the thing for that trade. Good night!”
Thus ended the dialogue; and, in a few seconds after, the retiring officer had entered one of the little boxes adjacent to the wheel-house, and shut himself up for the night.
Up to a certain point I had listened to this conversation with but little attention, and might not have noticed it at all, but for its quaint oddity. All at once, however, it became deeply interesting to me—at that point when it turned upon the Missouri Belle.
What could the man mean by the boat no longer running to Orleans? New Orleans, of course, he meant—for these men are perfect Lacons in conversation, and I understood the curtailment of the name. Was it possible the boat was not then on her way to New Orleans? and was she bound round to Cincinatti?