’Who is I?  Who is I?  I let you know mighty quick who I is!  I want you niggers to understan’ dat I fires de middle do’{footnote [Door]} on de “Aleck Scott!"’

That was sufficient.

The barber of the ‘Grand Turk’ was a spruce young negro, who aired his importance with balmy complacency, and was greatly courted by the circle in which he moved.  The young colored population of New Orleans were much given to flirting, at twilight, on the banquettes of the back streets.  Somebody saw and heard something like the following, one evening, in one of those localities.  A middle-aged negro woman projected her head through a broken pane and shouted (very willing that the neighbors should hear and envy), ’You Mary Ann, come in de house dis minute!  Stannin’ out dah foolin’ ‘long wid dat low trash, an’ heah’s de barber offn de “Gran’ Turk” wants to conwerse wid you!’

My reference, a moment ago, to the fact that a pilot’s peculiar official position placed him out of the reach of criticism or command, brings Stephen W——­ naturally to my mind.  He was a gifted pilot, a good fellow, a tireless talker, and had both wit and humor in him.  He had a most irreverent independence, too, and was deliciously easy-going and comfortable in the presence of age, official dignity, and even the most august wealth.  He always had work, he never saved a penny, he was a most persuasive borrower, he was in debt to every pilot on the river, and to the majority of the captains.  He could throw a sort of splendor around a bit of harum-scarum, devil-may-care piloting, that made it almost fascinating—­but not to everybody.  He made a trip with good old Captain Y——­once, and was ‘relieved’ from duty when the boat got to New Orleans.  Somebody expressed surprise at the discharge.  Captain Y——­ shuddered at the mere mention of Stephen.  Then his poor, thin old voice piped out something like this:—­

’Why, bless me!  I wouldn’t have such a wild creature on my boat for the world—­not for the whole world!  He swears, he sings, he whistles, he yells—­I never saw such an Injun to yell.  All times of the night—­it never made any difference to him.  He would just yell that way, not for anything in particular, but merely on account of a kind of devilish comfort he got out of it.  I never could get into a sound sleep but he would fetch me out of bed, all in a cold sweat, with one of those dreadful war-whoops.  A queer being—­very queer being; no respect for anything or anybody.  Sometimes he called me “Johnny.”  And he kept a fiddle, and a cat.  He played execrably.  This seemed to distress the cat, and so the cat would howl.  Nobody could sleep where that man—­and his family—­was.  And reckless.  There never was anything like it.  Now you may believe it or not, but as sure as I am sitting here, he brought my boat a-tilting down through those awful snags at Chicot under a rattling head of steam, and the wind a-blowing like the very nation, at that!  My