"I know it is, sir. That was a pretty narrow plank on the steamboat."
"It wasn't the narrow plank," he replied, bitterly.
"I suppose you had been taking a little too much," I added, willing to help him out.
"Did you think I was intoxicated?"
"I don't know much about it, but I did think so."
"I would rather give a thousand dollars than have it known that I drank too much and fell into the river. The story would ruin me, and spoil all my prospects."
Squire Fishley was a stranger in Riverport. He had not been to Torrentville since I lived with the captain, and I was sure no one knew who it was that had fallen into the river. I comforted him, and assured him it would be all right.
"If your friends on board of the steamer don't expose you, no one else will," I continued.
"They will not; they are going to New Orleans, and will not return for months. If you should happen to say anything to my brother or his family—"
"I will not breathe it," I interposed.