LITMIR.BIZ

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run away from the steamboats,

      Taking the carrying trade in the very edge of the water,

      It was all up with the old flush times, and Captain Dunlevy

      Had to climb down with the rest of us pilots till he was only

      Captain the same as any and every pilot is captain,

      Glad enough, too, to be getting his hundred and twenty-five dollars

      Through the months of the spring and fall while navigation was open.

      Never lowered himself, though, a bit from captain and owner,

      Knew his rights and yours, and never would thought of allowing

      Any such thing as a liberty from you or taking one with you.

      I had been his cub, and all that I knew of the river

      Captain Dunlevy had learnt me; and if you know what the feeling

      Is of a cub for the pilot that learns him the river, you'll trust me

      When I tell you I felt it the highest kind of an honor

      Having him for my partner; and when I came up to relieve him,

      One day, here at the wheel, and actu'lly thought that I found him

      Taking that island there on the left, I thought I was crazy.

      No, I couldn't believe my senses, and yet I couldn't endure it.

      Seeing him climb the spokes of the wheel to warp the Kanawha,

      With the biggest trip of passengers ever she carried,

      Round on the bar at the left that fairly stuck out of the water.

      Well, as I said, he learnt me all that I knew of the river,

      And was I to learn him now which side to take of an island

      When I knew he knew it like his right hand from his left hand?

      My, but I hated to speak! It certainly seemed like my tongue clove,

      Like the Bible says, to the roof of my mouth! But I had to.

      'Captain,' I says, and it seemed like another person was talking,

      'Do you usu'lly take that island there on the eastward?'

      'Yes,' he says, and he laughed, 'and I thought I had learnt you to do it,

      When you was going up.' 'But not going down, did you, captain?'

      'Down?' And he whirled at me, and, without ever stopping his laughing,

      Turned as white as a sheet, and his eyes fairly bulged from their sockets.

      Then he whirled back again, and looked up and down on the river,

      Like he was hunting out the shape of the shore and the landmarks.

      Well, I suppose the thing has happened to every one sometime,

      When you find the points of the compass have swapped with each other,

      And at the instant you're looking, the North and the South have changed places.

      I knew what was in his mind as well as Dunlevy himself did.

      Neither one of us spoke a word for nearly a minute.

      Then in a kind of whisper he says, 'Take the wheel, Captain Davis!'

      Let the spokes fly, and while I made a jump forwards to catch them,

      Staggered into that chair – well, the very one you are in, ma'am.

      Set there breathing quick, and, when he could speak, all he said was,

      'This is the end of it for me on the river, Jim Davis,'

      Reached up over his head for his coat where it hung by that window,

      Trembled onto his feet, and stopped in the door there a second,

      Stared in hard like as if for good-by to the things he was used to,

      Shut the door behind him, and never come back again through it."

      While we were silent, not liking to prompt the pilot with questions,

      "Well," he said, at last, "it was no use to argue. We tried it,

      In the half-hearted way that people do that don't mean it.

      Every one was his friend here on the Kanawha, and we knew

      It was the first time he ever had lost his bearings, but he knew,

      In such a thing as that, that the first and the last are the same time.

      When we had got through trying our worst to persuade him, he only

      Shook his head and says, 'I am done for, boys, and you know it,'

      Left the boat at Wheeling, and left his life on the river —

      Left his life on the earth, you may say, for I don't call it living,

      Setting there homesick at home for the wheel he can never go back to.

      Reads the river-news regular; knows just the stage of the water

      Up and down the whole way from Cincinnati to Pittsburg;

      Follows every boat from the time she starts out in the spring-time

      Till she lays up in the summer, and then again in the winter;

      Wants to talk all about her and who is her captain and pilot;

      Then wants to slide away to that everlastingly puzzling

      Thing that happened to him that morning on the Kanawha

      When he lost his bearings and North and South had changed places —

      No, I don't call that living, whatever the rest of you call it."

      We were silent again till that woman spoke up, "And what was it,

      Captain, that kept him from going back and being a pilot?"

      "Well, ma'am," after a moment the pilot patiently answered,

      "I don't hardly believe that I could explain it exactly."

      IV

      THE RETURN TO FAVOR

      He never, by any chance, quite kept his word, though there was a moment in every case when he seemed to imagine doing what he said, and he took with mute patience the rakings which the ladies gave him when he disappointed them.

      Disappointed is not just the word, for the ladies did not really expect him to do what he said. They pretended to believe him when he promised, but at the bottom of their hearts they never did or could. He was gentle-mannered and soft-spoken, and when he set his head on one side, and said that a coat would be ready on Wednesday, or a dress on Saturday, and repeated his promise upon the same lady's expressed doubt, she would catch her breath and say that now she absolutely must have it on the day named, for otherwise she would not have a thing to put on. Then he would become very grave, and his soft tenor would deepen to a bass of unimpeachable veracity, and he would say, "Sure, lady, you have it."

      The lady would depart still doubting and slightly sighing, and he would turn to the customer who was waiting to have a button sewed on, or something like that, and ask him softly what it was he could do for him. If the customer offered him his appreciation of the case in hand, he would let his head droop lower, and in a yet deeper bass deplore the doubt of the ladies as an idiosyncrasy of their sex. He would make the customer feel that he was a favorite customer whose rights to a perfect fidelity of word and deed must by no means be tampered with, and he would have the button sewed on or the rip sewed up at once, and refuse to charge anything, while the customer waited in his shirt-sleeves in the small, stuffy shop opening directly from the street. When he tolerantly discussed the peculiarities of ladies as a sex, he would endure to be laughed at, "for sufferance was the badge of all his tribe," and possibly he rather liked it.

      The favorite customer enjoyed being there when some lady came back on the appointed Wednesday or Saturday, and the tailor came soothingly forward and showed her into the curtained alcove where

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