“And do you think she is on her way to Cincinatti now?”
“Why, stranger, whar else ’ud she be goin’?”
“I thought she might be going down to New Orleans.”
“Wal, she did run thar form’lly; but she’s off that now. She’s changed hands lately, and’s been put on the other line, ’tween Saint Louis and Cinc’natti, which air a trade she’ll suit for better. She wa’nt big enough for below; but bein’ a light draught critter, she’s jest the thing to get over the Falls.”
“And you are certain she is now on the way to Cincinatti?”
“No, that I aint, stranger. She may be on top o’ a durnation snag, or chuck up on a sand-bar at this minnit, for what I can tell. All I know for sartin is that she’s boun’ for Cinc’natti; and if nothin’ happens her, she’ll be thar in less ’n four days from now. Whether she breaks down, howsomever, air a question beyont my calkerlationa. She mout an’ she mout not.”
With this sublime resignation to probabilities, the tall speaker in the glass house, evidently intended that the conversation should come to a close, for I observed that he bent his gaze more eagerly ahead, and seemed to direct his attention exclusively to the tiller. Perhaps the idea of the Missouri Belle resting upon a snag or sand-bar, had suggested the probability of the Sultana getting into a similar predicament, and stimulated him to increased caution in the performance of his duty.
Though I had succeeded in concealing my emotions from the steersman, it was not without an effort. The information he imparted was full of serious meaning; and augmented the feeling of uneasiness, from which I already suffered. Stronger than ever did I feel that presentiment of evil.
The statement of the pilot admitted of no interpretation but one. It was direct and point blank: that the Missouri Belle was bound for Cincinatti. The man could have no motive for misleading me. Why should he? I had asked a simple question, without much show of interest or curiosity; he had answered it from pure politeness. There was not the slightest reason why he should make a misstatement; and I accepted what he had said as the truth.
The riddle had assumed a new character, and had become altogether more difficult of solution. “What,” I repeated to myself, “can Madame Dardonville have to do on a Cincinatti boat? Surely there is something astray?”