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 not to have any himself!  It was not he that ran aground.

It was not Norman Anderson who ran aground.  He walked into the store with the proud and manly consciousness of having done his duty, he made his returns of every cent of money that had come into his hands, and, like all other faithful stewards, received the cordial commendation of his master.

But August Wehle the striker, just when he was to be made an engineer, when he thought he had smooth sailing, suddenly and provokingly found himself fast aground, with no spar or capstan by which he might help himself off, with no friendly craft alongside to throw him a hawser and pull him off.

It seems that when the captain promised him promotion, he did not know anything of August’s interference with the gamblers.  But when Parkins filed his complaint, it touched the captain.  It was generally believed among the employes of the boat that a percentage of gamblers’ gains was one of the “old man’s” perquisites, and he was not the only steamboat captain who profited by the