It was a railroad town. On the long steps of a very imposing country store, lighted by flaring oil lamps, a great crowd of country residents (all men) were gathered to see the train come in,—an event soon to happen, I gathered. They swam in a Vierge or Goyaesque haze,—a full hundred of them, their ivory faces picked out in spots by the uncertain light. We asked of one the road to Evansville, and he told us to go back over the bridge and south, or to our left, as we crossed the bridge.
“The ferry hain’t here. It may be as ye can’t get across t’night. The river’s runnin' purty high.”
“That would be a nice note, wouldn’t it?” commented Bert.
“Well, Decker looks interesting to me,” observed Franklin. “What’s the matter with Decker? I’d like to sketch that crowd anyhow.”
We went on down to the ferry to see.
THE FERRY AT DECKER
En route we encountered a perfectly horrible stretch of road—great, mucky ruts that almost stalled the car—and in the midst of it an oil well, or the flaring industry of driving one. There was a great towering well frame in the air, a plunger, a forge, an engine, and various flaring torches set about and men working. It was so attractive that, although up to this moment we had been worrying about the car, we got out and went over, leaving it standing in inches and inches of mud. Watching the blaze of furnaces for sharpening drills and listening to the monotonous plunging of the drill, we sat about here for half an hour basking in the eerie effect of the torches in the moonlight and against the dark wood. It was fascinating.
A little later we came to the waterside and the alleged ferry. It was only a road that led straight into the river—a condition which caused Franklin to remark that they must expect us to drive under. At the shore was a bell on a post, with a rope attached. No sign indicated its import, but since far on the other side we could see lights, we pulled it vigorously. It clanged loud and long. Between us and the lights rolled a wide flood, smooth and yet swiftly moving, apparently. Small bits of things could be seen going by in the pale light. The moon on the water had the luster of an oyster shell. There was a faint haze or fog which prevented a clear reflection.
But our bell brought no response. We stood here between bushes and trees admiring the misty, pearly river, but we wanted to get on, too. On the other side was a town. You could hear laughing voices occasionally, and scraps of piano playing or a voice singing, but the immediate shore line was dark. I seized the rope again and clanged and clanged “like a house afire,” Bert said.