town had its citizens who had survived an explosion, and the stock form into which to put the humorous quip or story of the time was to have it told by the clerk going up as he met the captain in the air coming down, with the debris of the boat flying all about them.  As the river boats improved in character, disasters of this sort became less frequent, and the United States, by establishing a rigid system of boiler inspection, and compelling engineers to undergo a searching examination into their fitness before receiving a license, has done much to guard against them.  Yet to-day, we hear all too frequently of river steamers blown to bits, and all on board lost, though it is a form of disaster almost unknown on Eastern waters where crowded steamboats ply the Sound, the Hudson, the Connecticut, and the Potomac, year after year, with never a disaster.  The cheaper material of Western boats has something to do with this difference, but a certain happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care spirit, which has characterized the Western riverman since the days of the broadhorns, is chiefly responsible.  Most often an explosion is the result of gross carelessness—­a sleepy engineer, and a safety-valve “out of kilter,” as too many of them often are, have killed their hundreds on the Western rivers.  Sometimes, however, the almost criminal rashness, of which captains were guilty, in a mad rush for a little cheap glory, ended in a deafening crash, the annihilation of a good boat, and the death of scores of her people by drowning, or the awful torture of inhaling scalding steam.  Rivalry between the different boats was fierce, and now and then at the sight of a competitor making for a landing where freight and passengers awaited the first boat to land her gangplank, the alert captain would not unnaturally take some risks to get there first.  Those were the moments that resulted in methods in the engine room picturesquely described as “feeding the fires with fat bacon and resin, and having a nigger sit on the safety valve.”  To such impromptu races might be charged the most terrifying accidents in the history of the river.

But the great races, extending sometimes for more than a thousand miles up the river, and carefully planned for months in advance, were seldom, if ever, marred by an accident.  For then every man on both boats was on the alert, from pilot down to fuel passer.  The boat was trimmed by guidance of a spirit level until she rode the water at precisely the draft that assured the best speed.  Her hull was scraped and oiled, her machinery overhauled, and her fuel carefully selected.  Picked men made up her crew, and all the upper works that could be disposed of were landed before the race, in order to decrease air resistance.  It was the current pleasantry to describe the captain as shaving off his whiskers lest they catch the breeze, and parting his hair in the middle, that the boat might be the better trimmed.  Few passengers were taken, for they could not be relied upon to “trim ship,”