I sat near a deck lamp. Grace
Sheraton's letter was in my pocket. I did not draw it out to read it
and re-read it. I contented myself with watching the masked shadows on
the shores. I contented myself with dreams, dreams which I stigmatized
as unwarranted and wrong.
We were running that night in the dark, before the rising of the moon, a
thing which cautious steamboat men would not have ventured, although our
pilot was confident that no harm could come to him. Against assurance
such as this the dangerous Missouri with its bars and snags purposed a
present revenge. Our whistle awakened the echoes along the shores as we
plowed on up the yellow flood, hour after hour. Then, some time toward
midnight, while most of the passengers were attempting some sort of
rest, wrapped in their blankets along the deck, there came a slight
shock, a grating slide, and a rasping crash of wood. With a forward
churning of her paddles which sent water high along the rail, the _River
Belle_ shuddered and lay still, her engines throbbing and groaning.
In an instant every one on the boat was on his feet and running to the
side. I joined the rush to the bows, and leaning over, saw that we were
hard aground at the lower end of a sand bar.
Pages:
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134