Carline was abject. Terabon, however, was caught wordless. This man was the husband of the woman for whose sake he had ventured among the desperate river rats, and now he realized that he had succeeded in the task she had set him. Looking back, he was surprised at the ease of its accomplishment, but he was under no illusions regarding the jeopardy he had run. He had trusted to his aloofness, his place as a newspaper man, and his frankness, to rescue Carline, and he had brought him away.
“You’re all righ now,” Terabon suggested. “I guess you’ve had your lesson.”
“A whole book full of them!” Carline cried. “I owe you something—an apology, and my thanks! Where are we going?”
“I was taking you down to a Memphis hospital, or to Mendova––”
“I don’t need any hospital. I’m broke; I must get some money. We’ll go to Mendova. I know some people there. I’ve heard it was a great old town, too! I always wanted to see it.”
Terabon looked at him; Carline had learned nothing. For a minute remorse and comprehension had flickered in his mind, now he looked ahead to a good time in Mendova, to sight-seeing, sporting around, genial friends, and all the rest. Argument would do no good, and Terabon retreated from his position as friend and helper to that of an observer and a recorder of facts. 196 Whatever pity he might feel, he could not help but perceive that there was no use trying to help fools.
It was just dusk when they ran into Mendova. The city lights sparkled as they turned in the eddy and ran up to the shanty-boat town. They dropped an anchor into the deep water and held the boat off the bank by the stern while they ran a line up to a six-inch willow to keep the bow to the bank. The springy, ten-foot gangplank bridged the gap to the shore.
More than thirty shanty-boats and gasolene cruisers were moored along that bank, and from nearly every one peered sharp eyes, taking a look at the newcomers.
“Hello, Terabon!” someone hailed, and the newspaper man turned, surprised. One never does get over that feeling of astonishment when, fifteen hundred miles or so from home, a familiar voice calls one’s name in greeting.
“Hello!” Terabon replied, heartily, and then shook hands with a market hunter he had met for an hour’s gossip in the eddy at St. Louis. “Any luck, Bill? How’s Frank?”