Three or four sweeps began to beat the water, and a 191 whole fleet of shanty-boats drifted in slowly. They began to turn like a wheel as part of them ran into the eddy while the current carried the others down, but old river men were at the sweeps, and one of them called the orders:
“Raunch ’er, boys! Raunch ’er! Raunchin’s what she needs!”
They floated out of the current into the slow reverse eddy, and coming up close to Rasba’s fleet, talked back and forth with him till a gleam of light through a window struck him clearly out of the dark.
“Hue-e-e!” a shrill woman’s voice laughed. “Hit’s Rasba, the Riveh Prophet Rasba! Did yo’ all git to catch Nelia Crele, Parson?”
“Did I git to catch Missy Crele!” he repeated, dazed.
“When yo’ drapped out’n Wolf Island Chute, Parson, that night she pulled out alone?”
“No’m; I lost her down by the Sucks, but she drapped in by Caruthersville an’ give me books an’ books—all fo’ my mission boat!”
“That big boat yourn?”
“Yeh.”
“Where all was hit built?”