Then he would jump from the bench, snatch the wheel from me, and meet her himself, pouring out wrath upon me all the time.

George Ritchie was the other pilot’s cub.  He was having good times now; for his boss, George Ealer, was as kindhearted as Brown wasn’t.  Ritchie had steeled for Brown the season before; consequently he knew exactly how to entertain himself and plague me, all by the one operation.  Whenever I took the wheel for a moment on Ealer’s watch, Ritchie would sit back on the bench and play Brown, with continual ejaculations of ‘Snatch her! snatch her!  Derndest mud-cat I ever saw!’ ’Here!  Where you going now?  Going to run over that snag?’ ’Pull her down!  Don’t you hear me?  Pull her down!’ ’There she goes!  Just as I expected!  I told you not to cramp that reef.  G’way from the wheel!’

So I always had a rough time of it, no matter whose watch it was; and sometimes it seemed to me that Ritchie’s good-natured badgering was pretty nearly as aggravating as Brown’s dead-earnest nagging.

I often wanted to kill Brown, but this would not answer.  A cub had to take everything his boss gave, in the way of vigorous comment and criticism; and we all believed that there was a United States law making it a penitentiary offense to strike or threaten a pilot who was on duty.  However, I could imagine myself killing Brown; there was no law against that; and that was the thing I used always to do the moment I was abed.  Instead of going over my river in my mind as was my duty, I threw business aside for pleasure, and killed Brown.  I killed Brown every night for months; not in old, stale, commonplace ways, but in new and picturesque ones;—­ways that were sometimes surprising for freshness of design and ghastliness of situation and environment.

Brown was always watching for a pretext to find fault; and if he could find no plausible pretext, he would invent one.  He would scold you for shaving a shore, and for not shaving it; for hugging a bar, and for not hugging it; for ‘pulling down’ when not invited, and for not pulling down when not invited; for firing up without orders, and for waiting for orders.  In a word, it was his invariable rule to find fault with everything you did; and another invariable rule of his was to throw all his remarks (to you) into the form of an insult.

One day we were approaching New Madrid, bound down and heavily laden.  Brown was at one side of the wheel, steering; I was at the other, standing by to ‘pull down’ or ‘shove up.’  He cast a furtive glance at me every now and then.  I had long ago learned what that meant; viz., he was trying to invent a trap for me.  I wondered what shape it was going to take.  By and by he stepped back from the wheel and said in his usual snarly way—­

‘Here!—­See if you’ve got gumption enough to round her to.’