‘What’s this, sir?’

‘Jones’s plantation.’

I said to myself, I wish I might venture to offer a small bet that it isn’t.  But I did not chirp.  I only waited to see.  Mr. Bixby handled the engine bells, and in due time the boat’s nose came to the land, a torch glowed from the forecastle, a man skipped ashore, a darky’s voice on the bank said, ‘Gimme de k’yarpet-bag, Mars’ Jones,’ and the next moment we were standing up the river again, all serene.  I reflected deeply awhile, and then said—­but not aloud—­’Well, the finding of that plantation was the luckiest accident that ever happened; but it couldn’t happen again in a hundred years.’  And I fully believed it was an accident, too.

By the time we had gone seven or eight hundred miles up the river, I had learned to be a tolerably plucky up-stream steersman, in daylight, and before we reached St. Louis I had made a trifle of progress in night-work, but only a trifle.  I had a note-book that fairly bristled with the names of towns, ‘points,’ bars, islands, bends, reaches, etc.; but the information was to be found only in the notebook—­none of it was in my head.  It made my heart ache to think I had only got half of the river set down; for as our watch was four hours off and four hours on, day and night, there was a long four-hour gap in my book for every time I had slept since the voyage began.

My chief was presently hired to go on a big New Orleans boat, and I packed my satchel and went with him.  She was a grand affair.  When I stood in her pilot-house I was so far above the water that I seemed perched on a mountain; and her decks stretched so far away, fore and aft, below me, that I wondered how I could ever have considered the little ‘Paul Jones’ a large craft.  There were other differences, too.  The ‘Paul Jones’s’ pilot-house was a cheap, dingy, battered rattle-trap, cramped for room:  but here was a sumptuous glass temple; room enough to have a dance in; showy red and gold window-curtains; an imposing sofa; leather cushions and a back to the high bench where visiting pilots sit, to spin yarns and ‘look at the river;’ bright, fanciful ‘cuspadores’ instead of a broad wooden box filled with sawdust; nice new oil-cloth on the floor; a hospitable big stove for winter; a wheel as high as my head, costly with inlaid work; a wire tiller-rope; bright brass knobs for the bells; and a tidy, white-aproned, black ‘texas-tender,’ to bring up tarts and ices and coffee during mid-watch, day and night.  Now this was ‘something like,’ and so I began to take heart once more to believe that piloting was a romantic sort of occupation after all.  The moment we were under way I began to prowl about the great steamer and fill myself with joy.  She was as clean and as dainty as a drawing-room; when I looked down her long, gilded saloon, it was like gazing through a splendid tunnel; she had an oil-picture, by some gifted sign-painter, on every stateroom door; she glittered with no end of prism-fringed