It is the lamentable fact, and I must face it, and so must you if you intend to read on, that the language of the river was rough.  At least ninety-nine out of every hundred river stories are, therefore, not printable in full.  Either they must be vitiated by deletions, or interpreted at certain points by blanks and “blanketys.”  As for me, I prefer the blankety-blanks and I consider that this method of avoiding the complete truth relieves me of all responsibility.  And of course, if that is so, it absolves, at the same time, good Captain “Billy” Jones, or any one else who may have happened to tell me the stories.

Both Leathers and Cannon were large, powerful men, and they always hated each other.  Leathers was never popular, for he was very arrogant, but he had a great reputation for pushing the Natchez through on time.  Also, such friends as he did have always stuck by him.

Something of the feeling between the two old river characters is revealed in the following story related by Captain Jones: 

“Ed Snodgrass, who lived in St. Joseph, La., was a friend of both Cannon and Leathers.  When the Natchez would arrive at St. Joseph, he would go and give Leathers news about Cannon, and when the Lee came in he would see Cannon and tell him about Leathers.

“Well, one time Leathers was laid up with a carbuncle on his back, and brought a doctor up on the boat with him.  So, of course, Ed Snodgrass told Cannon about it when he came along.

“‘A carbuncle, eh?’ said Cannon.

“‘Yes,’ said Ed.

“‘Well,’ said Cannon, ’you tell the old blankety-blank-blank that I had a brother—­a bigger, stronger man than I am—­and he had one o’ them things and died in two weeks.’

“Soon after that Cannon made a misstep when backing the Natchez out, at Natchez, and fell, breaking his collar bone.  Of course Ed Snodgrass gave the news to Leathers when he came along.

“‘Huh!’ said Leathers.  ’His collar bone, eh?  You tell the old blankety-blank-blank that I wish it had been his blankety-blank neck!’”

I asked Captain Jones for stories about gambling.

“After the war,” he said, “there weren’t the big poker games there used to be.  Mostly we had sucker games then.  There was a gambler named George Duval who wrote a book—­or, rather, he had somebody write it for him, for he was a very ignorant fellow, and began his life calking the seams of boats in a shipyard.  He had a partner who was known as ‘Jew Mose,’ who used to dress like a rich planter.  He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a very elegant tail coat, and was a big, handsome man.

“After the boat left New Orleans, this ‘Jew Mose’ would disguise himself with whiskers and goggles, go to the barber shop and lay out his game.  George Duval and a fellow called ‘Canada Bill’ were the cappers.  They would bring in suckers, get their money, and generally get off the boat about Baton Rouge.