on drew his skiff alongside and reached for his
typewriter. As he began to write, he said: "I write everything down--big
or little. A man can't remember everything, you know."

"Make good money writing for the newspapers?"

"Enough to live on," Terabon replied, "and, of course, it's living,
coming down Old Mississip'!"

"You like it travelling in that skiff? Where do you sleep?"

"I stretch that canvas between the gunwales in those staples; I put
those hoops up, and draw a canvas over the whole length of the boat. I
can sleep like a baby in its cradle."

"Well, that's one way," Carline replied, doubtfully. "If I owned this
old river, you could buy it for two cents."

Terabon laughed, and after a minute Carline joined in, but he had told
the truth. He hated the river, and he was cowed by it; yet he could not
escape its clutches.

"I fancy it hasn't always treated you right," Terabon remarked.

"Treated me right!" Carline doubled his fists and stiffened where he
sat. "It's!--it's----"

He could not speak for his emotion, but his little pointed chin trembled
a minute later as he relaxed and looked over his shoulder again. The
typewriter clicked along for minutes, Terabon's fingers dancing over the
keys as he put down, word for word, and motion for motion, the man who
was afraid of the river and yet was tripping down it. It seemed as
though the man afraid must have some kind of courage, too, because he
was going in spite of his fears.

"It's passing noon, and I think I'll get something to eat," Terabon
suggested; "I'll get up my----"

"I forgot to eat!" Carline said. "I've got everything, and that knob
there is a three-burner oil stove. We'll eat on board. Never mind your
stuff, I've got so much it'll spoil--but I ain't much of a cook!"

"I'm the original cook the Caesars wanted to buy for gold!" Terabon
boasted. "I got some squirrels, there, I killed up on Buffalo Island,
and we'll fry them."

Nor did he fail to make his boast good, for he soon had hot-bread, gravy
browned in the pan, boiled sweet potatoes, and canned corn ready for the
table. When they sat down to eat, Carline confessed that he hadn't had
a real meal for a week except one he ate in a Cairo restaurant.

"I could have got a kind of a meal," he admitted, "but you see I was
worried a good deal. Did you stop at Stillhouse Island?"

"Where's that?"

"Just above Gage, kind of across from St. Genevieve."

"Let's see--oh, yes. There was an old