I thought I had finished this chapter, but I wish to add a curious thing, while it is in my mind.  It is only relevant in that it is connected with piloting.  There used to be an excellent pilot on the river, a Mr. X., who was a somnambulist.  It was said that if his mind was troubled about a bad piece of river, he was pretty sure to get up and walk in his sleep and do strange things.  He was once fellow-pilot for a trip or two with George Ealer, on a great New Orleans passenger packet.  During a considerable part of the first trip George was uneasy, but got over it by and by, as X. seemed content to stay in his bed when asleep.  Late one night the boat was approaching Helena, Arkansas; the water was low, and the crossing above the town in a very blind and tangled condition.  X. had seen the crossing since Ealer had, and as the night was particularly drizzly, sullen, and dark, Ealer was considering whether he had not better have X. called to assist in running the place, when the door opened and X. walked in.  Now on very dark nights, light is a deadly enemy to piloting; you are aware that if you stand in a lighted room, on such a night, you cannot see things in the street to any purpose; but if you put out the lights and stand in the gloom you can make out objects in the street pretty well.  So, on very dark nights, pilots do not smoke; they allow no fire in the pilot-house stove if there is a crack which can allow the least ray to escape; they order the furnaces to be curtained with huge tarpaulins and the sky-lights to be closely blinded.  Then no light whatever issues from the boat.  The undefinable shape that now entered the pilot-house had Mr. X.’s voice.  This said—­

’Let me take her, George; I’ve seen this place since you have, and it is so crooked that I reckon I can run it myself easier than I could tell you how to do it.’

’It is kind of you, and I swear I am willing.  I haven’t got another drop of perspiration left in me.  I have been spinning around and around the wheel like a squirrel.  It is so dark I can’t tell which way she is swinging till she is coming around like a whirligig.’

So Ealer took a seat on the bench, panting and breathless.  The black phantom assumed the wheel without saying anything, steadied the waltzing steamer with a turn or two, and then stood at ease, coaxing her a little to this side and then to that, as gently and as sweetly as if the time had been noonday.  When Ealer observed this marvel of steering, he wished he had not confessed!  He stared, and wondered, and finally said—­

’Well, I thought I knew how to steer a steamboat, but that was another mistake of mine.’