“No-o bottom!”

“De-e-p four!”

“Half three!”

“Quarter three!”

“Mark under wa-a-ter three!”

“Half twain!”

“Quarter twain!-----”

Davis pulled a couple of ropes—­there was a jingling of small bells far below, the boat’s speed slackened, and the pent steam began to whistle and the gauge-cocks to scream: 

“By the mark twain!”

“Quar—­ter—­her—­er—­less twain!”

“Eight and a half!”

“Eight feet!”

“Seven-ana-half!”

Another jingling of little bells and the wheels ceased turning altogether.  The whistling of the steam was something frightful now—­it almost drowned all other noises.

“Stand by to meet her!”

George had the wheel hard down and was standing on a spoke.

“All ready!”

The, boat hesitated seemed to hold her breath, as did the captain and pilots—­and then she began to fall away to starboard and every eye lighted: 

“Now then!—­meet her! meet her!  Snatch her!”

The wheel flew to port so fast that the spokes blended into a spider-web —­the swing of the boat subsided—­she steadied herself——­

“Seven feet!”

“Sev—­six and a half!”

“Six feet!  Six f——­”

Bang!  She hit the bottom!  George shouted through the tube: 

“Spread her wide open!  Whale it at her!”

Pow-wow-chow!  The escape-pipes belched snowy pillars of steam aloft, the boat ground and surged and trembled—­and slid over into——­

“M-a-r-k twain!”

“Quarter-her——­”

“Tap! tap! tap!” (to signify “Lay in the leads”)

And away she went, flying up the willow shore, with the whole silver sea of the Mississippi stretching abroad on every hand.

No Amaranth in sight!

“Ha-ha, boys, we took a couple of tricks that time!” said the captain.

And just at that moment a red glare appeared in the head of the chute and the Amaranth came springing after them!

“Well, I swear!”

“Jim, what is the meaning of that?”

“I’ll tell you what’s the meaning of it.  That hail we had at Napoleon was Wash Hastings, wanting to come to Cairo—­and we didn’t stop.  He’s in that pilot house, now, showing those mud turtles how to hunt for easy water.”

“That’s it!  I thought it wasn’t any slouch that was running that middle bar in Hog-eye Bend.  If it’s Wash Hastings—­well, what he don’t know about the river ain’t worth knowing—­a regular gold-leaf, kid-glove, diamond breastpin pilot Wash Hastings is.  We won’t take any tricks off of him, old man!”

“I wish I’d a stopped for him, that’s all.”

The Amaranth was within three hundred yards of the Boreas, and still gaining.  The “old man” spoke through the tube: 

“What is she-carrying now?”

“A hundred and sixty-five, sir!”