“Hullo; is that you, Steve?” he asked, gruffly.  “Well, when yer git done eatin’ I got another job fer yer on deck.  Yer hear me?”

I signified that I did, and indeed was even then quite ready to go, my heart throbbing at this opportunity to survey other sections of the boat.  I followed him eagerly up the ladder, and ten minutes later was busily employed with scrubbing brush, and a bucket of water, in an endeavor to improve the outward appearance of the paint of the upper deck.  Nothing occurred about me for some time, the passengers being at dinner in the main cabin.  I could hear the rattle of dishes, together with a murmur of conversation, and even found a partially opened skylight through which I could look down, and distinguish a small section of the table.  Kirby was not within range of my vision, but there were several officers in fatigue uniforms, none of their faces familiar, together with one or two men in civilian dress, I judged there were no women present, as I saw none, or heard any sound of a feminine voice.  The principal topic of conversation appeared to be in connection with the war, and was largely monopolized by a red-faced captain, who had once been a visitor in Black Hawk’s camp, and who loudly asserted that the gathering volunteers would prove utterly useless in such a campaign, which must eventually be won by the superiority of regular troops.  A hot-headed civilian opposite him at the table argued otherwise, claiming that the militia was largely composed of old Indian fighters, who would give a good account of themselves.  The discussion became noisy, and apparently endless, interesting me not at all.  Once I detected Kirby’s voice chime in mockingly, but altogether the talk brought me no information, and possessed little point.

I had moved away, and was engaged busily scraping at the dingy paint of the pilot house, when a negro, evidently a cook from his dress, came up from the lower deck, bearing a tray well-laden with food in one hand, and disappeared aft.  He did not even notice my presence, or glance about, but I instantly shrank back out Of sight, for I became immediately conscious that someone was closely following him.  This second man proved to be one of the fellows in civilian clothing I had previously noticed at the table below, a tall, sallow individual, attired in a suit of brown jeans, his lean, cracker face ornamented by a grizzled bunch of chin-whiskers.

“Yer wait a minute thar, Jim,” he called out, “’til I unlock that thar dore.  I ain’t ther kind thet takes chances with no nigger.”

I recognized the peculiar voice instantly, for I had listened to that lazy drawl before while hidden in the darkness beneath the Beaucaire veranda—­the fellow was Tim, the deputy sheriff from St. Louis.  The negro rested his tray on the rail, while the white man fumbled through his pockets for a key, finally locating it, and inserting the instrument into the lock of the second cabin from the stern.  It turned