and if anybody had questioned my ability to run any crossing between Cairo and New Orleans without help or instruction, I should have felt irreparably hurt. The idea of being afraid of any crossing in the lot, in the day-time, was a thing too preposterous for contemplation. Well, one matchless summer's day I was bowling down the bend above island 66, brimful of self-conceit und carrying my nose as high as a giraffe's, when Mr. Bixby said,—
"I am going below a while. I suppose you know the next crossing?"
"SCARED TO DEATH."
This was almost an affront. It was about the plainest and simplest crossing in the whole river, One couldn't come to any harm, whether he ran it right or not; and as for depth, there never had been any bottom there. I knew all this, perfectly well.
"Know how to run it? Why, I can run it with my eyes shut."
"How much water is there in it?"
"Well, that is an odd question. I could n't, get bottom there with a church steeple."
"You think so, do you?"
The very tone of the question shook my confidence. That was what Mr. Bixby was expecting. He left, without saying anything more. I began to imagine all sorts of things. Mr. Bixby, unknown to me, of course, sent somebody down to the forecastle with some mysterious instructions to the leadsmen, another messenger was sent to whisper among the officers, and then Mr. Bixby went into hiding behind a smoke-stack where he could observe results. Presently the
