This manner jolted me. I was down at the foot again, in a moment.
But I had to say just what I had said before.
‘Well, you’re a smart one,’ said Mr. Bixby. ‘What’s the name
of the NEXT point?’
Once more I didn’t know.
‘Well, this beats anything. Tell me the name of ANY point or place
I told you.’
I studied a while and decided that I couldn’t.
‘Look here! What do you start out from, above Twelve-Mile Point,
to cross over?’
‘I–I– don’t know.’
‘You–you–don’t know?’ mimicking my drawling manner of speech.
‘What DO you know?’
‘I–I– nothing, for certain.’
‘By the great Caesar’s ghost, I believe you! You’re the stupidest
dunderhead I ever saw or ever heard of, so help me Moses!
The idea of you being a pilot–you! Why, you don’t know enough
to pilot a cow down a lane.’
Oh, but his wrath was up! He was a nervous man, and he shuffled
from one side of his wheel to the other as if the floor was hot.
He would boil a while to himself, and then overflow and scald me again.
‘Look here! What do you suppose I told you the names of those points for?’
I tremblingly considered a moment, and then the devil of temptation
provoked me to say:–
‘Well–to–to–be entertaining, I thought.’
This was a red rag to the bull. He raged and stormed so (he was
crossing the river at the time) that I judge it made him blind,
because he ran over the steering-oar of a trading-scow. Of
course the traders sent up a volley of red-hot profanity.
Never was a man so grateful as Mr. Bixby was:
because he was brim full, and here were subjects who would
TALK BACK. He threw open a window, thrust his head out,
and such an irruption followed as I never had heard before.
The fainter and farther away the scowmen’s curses drifted,
the higher Mr. Bixby lifted his voice and the weightier his
adjectives grew. When he closed the window he was empty.
You could have drawn a seine through his system and not caught curses
enough to disturb your mother with. Presently he said to me in
the gentlest way–
‘My boy, you must get a little memorandum book, and every time I
tell you a thing, put it down right away. There’s only one way
to be a pilot, and that is to get this entire river by heart.
You have to know it just like A B C.’
That was a dismal revelation to me; for my memory was never
loaded with anything but blank cartridges. However, I did
not feel discouraged long. I judged that it was best to make
some allowances, for doubtless Mr. Bixby was ‘stretching.’
Presently he pulled a rope and struck a few strokes on the big bell.
The stars were all gone now, and the night was as black as ink.
I could hear the wheels churn along the bank, but I was not entirely
certain that I could see the shore. The voice of the invisible
watchman called up from the hurricane deck–
‘What’s this, sir?’
‘Jones’s plantation.’
I said to myself, I wish I might venture to offer a small bet
that it isn’t. But I did not chirp. I only waited to see.
Mr. Bixby handled the engine bells, and in due time the boat’s
nose came to the land, a torch glowed from the forecastle,
a man skipped ashore, a darky’s voice on the bank said,
‘Gimme de k’yarpet-bag, Mars’ Jones,’ and the next moment we
were standing up the river again, all serene. I reflected
deeply awhile, and then said–but not aloud–‘Well, the finding
of that plantation was the luckiest accident that ever happened;
but it couldn’t happen again in a hundred years.’ And I fully
believed it was an accident, too.
By the time we had gone seven or eight hundred miles up the river,
I had learned to be a tolerably plucky up-stream steersman,
in daylight, and before we reached St. Louis I had made
a trifle of progress in night-work, but only a trifle.
I had a note-book that fairly bristled with the names of towns,