“Yes. But—here!”
“I’m a newspaper writer,” he made his familiar statement. “My name is Lester Terabon. I’m from New York. I came down here from St. Louis to see the Mississippi.”
“You write for newspapers?” she repeated.
She came and sat down on the bow deck of his skiff, frankly curious and interested.
“My name’s Nelia Crele,” she smiled. “I’m a shanty-boater. That’s my boat.”
“I’m sure I’m glad to meet you,” he bowed, “Mrs. Crele.”
“You find lots to write about?”
“I can’t write fast enough,” he replied, enthusiastically, “I’ve been coming six weeks—from St. Louis. I’ve made more than 60,000 words in notes already, and the more I make the more I despair of getting it all down. Why, right here—New Madrid, Island 10, and—and––”
“And me?” she asked. “Did you stop at Gage?” 85
“At Stillhouse Island,” he admitted, circumspectly. “Mr. Crele there said I should be sure and tell his daughter, if I happened to meet her, that her mother wanted her to be sure and write and let her know how she is getting along.”