The bell rang. The great paddles scattered the brow waters with white foam, and the Judge voiced his thoughts.
"Stephen," said he, "I guess we'll have to put on shoulders to the wheel this summer. If Lincoln is not elected I have lived my sixty-five years for nothing."
As he descended the plank, he laid a hand on Stephen's arm, and tottered. The big Louisiana, Captain Brent's boat, just in from New Orleans, was blowing off her steam as with slow steps they climbed the levee and the steep pitch of the street beyond it. The clatter of hooves and the crack of whips reached their ears, and, like many others before them and since, they stepped into Carvel & Company's. On the inside of the glass partition of the private office, a voice of great suavity was heard. It was Eliphalet Hopper's.
"If you will give me the numbers of the bales, Captain Brent, I'll send a dray down to your boat and get them."
It was a very decisive voice that answered.
"No, sir, I prefer to do business with my friend, Colonel Carvel. I guess
I can wait."
"I could sell the goods to Texas buyers who are here in the store right now."
"Until I get instructions from one of the concern," vowed Captain Lige,
"I shall do as I always have done, sir. What is your position here, Mr.
Hopper?"
"I am manager, I callate."
The Captain's fist was heard to come down on the desk.