The dexterity and
strength of the negroes were here wonderfully displayed.

Standing at the edge of the boat--or at the foot of the slide, as the
conformation of the landing indicated--heavy cotton-hook in hand, they
watch the descending bale, as it bounds fiercely toward them; and just
at the right moment two men, with infinite dexterity of hand and
certainty of eye, strike their hooks firmly into the bagging--holding
on to the plunging mass and going with it halfway across the boat. Full
in front of it a third stands, like a _matador_ ready for the blow; and
striking his hook deep in the end, by a sudden and simultaneous twist
the three stand the bale upon end. Once stopped, two or three more
jerks of the hooks and it is neatly stowed away alongside, or on top
of, its fellows.

One constantly sees huge bales of from five to six hundred pounds bound
down a slide eighty feet high--scarcely touching the rail more than
three times in their steep descent--looking almost round from the
rapidity of their motion. Yet two negroes drive their hooks into, and
spin along with them; visibly checking their speed, till the third one
"heads up" and stops them still, in half a boat's width.

Sometimes a hook slips, the bagging gives, or the footing yields, when
the mixed mass of man and bale rolls across the boat and goes under
together. But frightful as it looks to unaccustomed eyes, a more
serious accident than a ducking seldom occurs; and at that, the banks
resound with the yells of laughter Sambo sends after his
brother-in-water.

"We've pretty thoroughly done the boat," said Styles, about midday.
"Let's go up to the professor's den and see if his head aches from 'ze
Van Dorn.'"

So up we mounted, passing on the way the faro bank, that advertises its
neighborhood by most musical jingling of chips and half dollars.

"Hello, Spring Chicken," cried Styles, to a youth in a blue sack with
shoulder straps, who sat at the door of a state-room near by. "Look out
for the tiger! I hear him about."

"No danger, me boy," responded the youth. "I'm too old a stager for
that."

"Aye, aye! we seen that before," put in his companion, a buttoned
middie of eighteen, innocent of beard. "A confounded pigeon came by
here just now, jingling his halves and pretending he'd won 'em. Wasting
time! Wasn't he, Styles? _We're_ too old birds to be caught with
chaff."

"Look alive, my hearty," answered Staple, "You're pretty near the
beast, and mam