“Why, no,” answered she, puzzled.
“There was an old fellow named Shreve who ran steamboats before Jackson fought the redcoats at New Orleans. In Shreve's time the cabins were curtained off, just like these new-fangled sleeping-car berths. The old man built wooden rooms, and he named them after the different states, Kentuck, and Illinois, and Pennsylvania. So that when a fellow came aboard he'd say: 'What state am I in, Cap?' And from this river has the name spread all over the world—stateroom. That's mighty interesting,” said Captain Lige.
“Yea,” said Virginia; “why didn't you tell me long ago.”
“And I'll bet you can't say,” the Captain continued, “why this house we're standing on is called the texas.”
“Because it is annexed to the states,” she replied, quick a flash.
“Well, you're bright,” said he. “Old Tufts got that notion, when Texas came in. Like to see Bill Jenks?”
“Of course,” said Virginia.
Bill Jenks was Captain Brent's senior pilot. His skin hung on his face in folds, like that of a rhinoceros It was very much the same color. His grizzled hair was all lengths, like a worn-out mop; his hand reminded one of an eagle's claw, and his teeth were a pine yellow. He greeted only such people as he deemed worthy of notice, but he had held Virginia in his arms.
“William,” said the young lady, roguishly, “how is the eye, location, and memory?”
William abandoned himself to a laugh. When this happened it was put in the Juanita's log.