Sam Clemens was still a boy in Hannibal, and had often been home to air his grandeur and dilate on the marvel of his work.  That learning the river was no light task Sam Clemens very well knew.  Nevertheless, as the little boat made its drowsy way down the river into lands that grew ever pleasanter with advancing spring, the old “permanent ambition” of boyhood stirred again, and the call of the far-away Amazon, with its coca and its variegated zoology, grew faint.

Horace Bixby, pilot of the Paul Jones, then a man of thirty-two, still living (1910) and at the wheel,—­[The writer of this memoir interviewed Mr. Bixby personally, and has followed his phrasing throughout.]—­was looking out over the bow at the head of Island No. 35 when he heard a slow, pleasant voice say: 

“Good morning.”

Bixby was a clean-cut, direct, courteous man.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, briskly, without looking around.

As a rule Mr. Bixby did not care for visitors in the pilot-house.  This one presently came up and stood a little behind him.

“How would you like a young man to learn the river?” he said.

The pilot glanced over his shoulder and saw a rather slender, loose-limbed young fellow with a fair, girlish complexion and a great tangle of auburn hair.

“I wouldn’t like it.  Cub pilots are more trouble than they’re worth.  A great deal more trouble than profit.”

The applicant was not discouraged.

“I am a printer by trade,” he went on, in his easy, deliberate way.  “It doesn’t agree with me.  I thought I’d go to South America.”

Bixby kept his eye on the river; but a note of interest crept into his voice.

“What makes you pull your words that way?” ("pulling” being the river term for drawling), he asked.

The young man had taken a seat on the visitors’ bench.

“You’ll have to ask my mother,” he said, more slowly than ever.  “She pulls hers, too.”

Pilot Bixby woke up and laughed; he had a keen sense of humor, and the manner of the reply amused him.  His guest made another advance.

“Do you know the Bowen boys?” he asked—­“pilots in the St. Louis and New Orleans trade?”

“I know them well—­all three of them.  William Bowen did his first steering for me; a mighty good boy, too.  Had a Testament in his pocket when he came aboard; in a week’s time he had swapped it for a pack of cards.  I know Sam, too, and Bart.”

“Old schoolmates of mine in Hannibal.  Sam and Will especially were my chums.”

“Come over and stand by the side of me,” he said.  “What is your name?”

The applicant told him, and the two stood looking at the sunlit water.

“Do you drink?”

“No.”

“Do you gamble?”

“No, Sir.”

“Do you swear?”

“Not for amusement; only under pressure.”

“Do you chew?”

“No, sir, never; but I must smoke.”