playing circling the table in interest.  The deputy, however, was not among these, and occasionally he wandered up the ladder, and patrolled the deck, although making no effort to invade the locked stateroom.  Apparently he was merely performing a duty assigned him by Kirby, but possessed no fear that his prisoners would escape.  The last time he appeared more at ease, and sat down on a stool close to the rail, smoking his pipe, and staring out glumly at the water.  His position was within a foot or two of the closed door, and I ventured to work my passage along the front of the cabin, hoping to attract his attention.  Perhaps he was lonely, for he finally observed me in my humble capacity, and broke the silence with a question.

“Hav’ yer ever bin up this way afore?”

I paused in my work, and straightened up stiffly.

“Onct,” making the fault in pronunciation prominent.

“Wal’, how fur is it then, ter thet damn Yellow Banks?”

“I dunno ’sackly in miles,” I acknowledged doubtfully.  “Everything looks just ’bout alike ’long yere,” and I took a squint at the bank, as though endeavoring a guess.  “I reckon maybe it’ll be ’bout twenty-four hours’ steamin’ yet—­morn’n thet, likely, if we got ter tie up much ‘long shore.  Are yer goin’ fer ter jine the army?”

“Whut, me jine the army?” he laughed as though at a good joke.  “Hell, no; I’m a sorter sheriff down Saint Louee way, an’ all I want fer ter do now is just git back thar as fast as God Almighty’ll let me.”

“I see, yer a headin’ in the wrong direction.  I reckon yer mus’ be one o’ them parties whut we done yanked outer thet keel-boat down river las’ night, aint yer?”

“I reckon I wus; whut of it?”

“Nuthin’ ’tall; ‘tain’t no manner o’ ’count ter me, fur as thet goes,” and I got down on my knees again to resume scrubbing.  “All I wus goin’ fer ter ask yer wus—­wan’t thar a couple o’ womin ’long with ye?  Whut’s becom’ o’ them?  I ain’t seed hide ner hair ov either since they cum aboard.”

I did not glance around, yet knew that Tim spat over the rail, and stroked his chin-beard reflectively, after looking hard at me.

“They’se both of ’em niggers,” he said, evidently persuaded my question was prompted only by curiosity.  “They belong ter Joe Kirby, an’ we got ’em locked up.”

“That’s whut yer way up yere fur, hey?  Goin’ ter take ’em back down river ter Saint Louee, I reckon?”

“Furst boat thet cums ‘long.  They skipped out night afore las’, but we cotched ’em all right.  Yer goin’ back on this steamer?”

“Not me; I’m goin’ fer ter enlist whin we git ter Yellow Banks.  Thar’s a heap more fun in thet, then steam-boatin’.”