“Providence is agin me,” sighed the Captain; “I’m pulled up with a short jerk, in the middle of my kurreer. Well, but,” he continued, musing, “ ’spose a feller tries on his own hook—no harm in takin’ all the chances—I ain’t in jail, yet!”
A few yards below the boat landing, there grew out of the bank, an immense water-oak, projecting over the river, at an angle of about forty-five. A huge muscadine vine enwrapped the oak in every part, its branches and tendrils covering it like network. The grapes were now ripe, and hung over the river
“In bacchanal profusion,—
Purple and gushing.”
Betsy allowed the canoe to drop down slowly, just outside of where the tips of the lower branches of the tree dallied with the rippling water. The fruit attracted the Sheriff’s eye and appetite, and reaching out an arm he laid hold of a branch, and began to “pluck and eat.”
“Drot the grapes!” said Suggs, angrily; “let’s go on!”
“Keep cool,” said the Sheriff, “I’ll fill my pockets first.”
“Be in a hurry, then, and if you will gather the sour things, reach up and pull down them big bunches, up thar,” pointing to some fine clusters higher than the Sheriff could reach, as he stood up in the boat, “pull the vines down to you?”
The Sheriff tried, but the vines resisted his utmost strength; so crying “steady!” he pulled himself up clear of the boat, and began to try to establish a footing among the foliage.
At this moment Captain Suggs made no remark orally, but his eye said to Betsy, as plainly as eye could talk, “hit her a lick back, my gal!”