ments and auguries that fail. When the first-engineer and a new
man took the engines at noon, Gus was advised by the former to get some
sleep, but there was no sleep for him until he had found Norman, who
trembled at the sight of him.

"Where is your state-room?" said August sternly, for he couldn't bring
himself to speak kindly to the poor fellow, even in his misery.

Norman turned pale. He had been thinking of suicide all the morning, but
he was a coward, and now he evidently felt sure that he was to be killed
by August. He did not dare disobey, but led the way, stopping to try to
apologize two or three times, but never getting any further
than "I--I--"

Once in the state-room, he sat down on the berth and gasped, "I--I--"

"Here is your money," said August, handing it to him. "I made the
gambler give it up."

"I--I--" said the astonished and bewildered Norman.

"You needn't say a word. You are a cowardly scoundrel, and if you say
anything, I'll knock you down for treating my father as you did. Only
for--for--well, I didn't want to see you fleeced."

Norman was ashamed for once, and hung his head. It touched the heart of
August a little, but the remembrance of the attack of the mob on his
father made him feel hard again, and so his generous act was performed
ungraciously.

CHAPTER XXX.

AGROUND.

Not the boat. The boat ran on safely enough to Louisville, and tied up
at the levee, and discharged her sugar und molasses, and took on a new
cargo of baled hay and corn and flour, and went back again, and made I
know not how many trips, and ender her existence I can not tell how or
when. What does become of the old steamboats? The Iatan ran for years
after she tied up at Louisville that summer morning, and then perhaps
she was blown up or burned up; perchance some cruel sawyer transfixed
her; perchance she was sunk by ice, or maybe she was robbed of her
engines and did duty as barge, or, what is more probable, she wore out
like the one-hoss shay, and just tumbled to pieces simultaneously.

It was not the gambler who got aground that morning. He had yet other
nice little games, with three cards or more or none, to play.

It was not the mud-clerk who ran aground--good, non-committal soul, who
never look sides where it would do him any harm, and who never worried
himself about anything. Dear, drawling, optimist philosopher, who could
see how other people's mishaps were best for them, and who took good
care no