‘She’ll not make it!’ somebody whispered.

The water grew shoaler and shoaler, by the leadsman’s cries, till it was down to—­

’Eight-and-a-half!....  E-i-g-h-t feet!....  E-i-g-h-t feet!....  Seven-and—­’

Mr. Bixby said warningly through his speaking tube to the engineer—­

‘Stand by, now!’

‘Aye-aye, sir!’

‘Seven-and-a-half!  Seven feet!  Six-and—­’

We touched bottom!  Instantly Mr. Bixby set a lot of bells ringing, shouted through the tube, ’now, let her have it—­every ounce you’ve got!’ then to his partner, ‘Put her hard down! snatch her! snatch her!’ The boat rasped and ground her way through the sand, hung upon the apex of disaster a single tremendous instant, and then over she went!  And such a shout as went up at Mr. Bixby’s back never loosened the roof of a pilot-house before!

There was no more trouble after that.  Mr. Bixby was a hero that night; and it was some little time, too, before his exploit ceased to be talked about by river men.

Fully to realize the marvelous precision required in laying the great steamer in her marks in that murky waste of water, one should know that not only must she pick her intricate way through snags and blind reefs, and then shave the head of the island so closely as to brush the overhanging foliage with her stern, but at one place she must pass almost within arm’s reach of a sunken and invisible wreck that would snatch the hull timbers from under her if she should strike it, and destroy a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of steam-boat and cargo in five minutes, and maybe a hundred and fifty human lives into the bargain.

The last remark I heard that night was a compliment to Mr. Bixby, uttered in soliloquy and with unction by one of our guests.  He said—­

‘By the Shadow of Death, but he’s a lightning pilot!’

Chapter 8 Perplexing Lessons

At the end of what seemed a tedious while, I had managed to pack my head full of islands, towns, bars, ‘points,’ and bends; and a curiously inanimate mass of lumber it was, too.  However, inasmuch as I could shut my eyes and reel off a good long string of these names without leaving out more than ten miles of river in every fifty, I began to feel that I could take a boat down to New Orleans if I could make her skip those little gaps.  But of course my complacency could hardly get start enough to lift my nose a trifle into the air, before Mr. Bixby would think of something to fetch it down again.  One day he turned on me suddenly with this settler—­

‘What is the shape of Walnut Bend?’

He might as well have asked me my grandmother’s opinion of protoplasm.  I reflected respectfully, and then said I didn’t know it had any particular shape.  My gunpowdery chief went off with a bang, of course, and then went on loading and firing until he was out of adjectives.