“Heave ho! 
     With the rum below,
     And hurrah for the Spanish Main O!”

I will not be positive about “the Spanish Main,” but it was hurrah for something O. I considered them very jolly fellows, and so indeed they were.  One weather-beaten tar in particular struck my fancy—­a thick-set, jovial man, about fifty years of age, with twinkling blue eyes and a fringe of gray hair circling his head like a crown.  As he took off his tarpaulin I observed that the top of his head was quite smooth and flat, as if somebody had sat down on him when he was very young.

There was something noticeably hearty in this man’s bronzed face, a heartiness that seemed to extend to his loosely knotted neckerchief.  But what completely won my good-will was a picture of enviable loveliness painted on his left arm.  It was the head of a woman with the body of a fish.  Her flowing hair was of livid green, and she held a pink comb in one hand.  I never saw anything so beautiful.  I determined to know that man.  I think I would have given my brass pistol to have had such a picture painted on my arm.

While I stood admiring this work of art, a fat wheezy steamtug, with the word Ajax in staring black letters on the paddlebox, came puffing up alongside the Typhoon.  It was ridiculously small and conceited, compared with our stately ship.  I speculated as to what it was going to do.  In a few minutes we were lashed to the little monster, which gave a snort and a shriek, and commenced backing us out from the levee (wharf) with the greatest ease.

I once saw an ant running away with a piece of cheese eight or ten times larger than itself.  I could not help thinking of it, when I found the chubby, smoky-nosed tug-boat towing the Typhoon out into the Mississippi River.

In the middle of the stream we swung round, the current caught us, and away we flew like a great winged bird.  Only it didn’t seem as if we were moving.  The shore, with the countless steamboats, the tangled rigging of the ships, and the long lines of warehouses, appeared to be gliding away from us.

It was grand sport to stand on the quarter-deck and watch all this.  Before long there was nothing to be seen on other side but stretches of low swampy land, covered with stunted cypress trees, from which drooped delicate streamers of Spanish moss—­a fine place for alligators and Congo snakes.  Here and there we passed a yellow sand-bar, and here and there a snag lifted its nose out of the water like a shark.

“This is your last chance to see the city, To see the city, Tom,” said my father, as we swept round a bend of the river.

I turned and looked.  New Orleans was just a colorless mass of something in the distance, and the dome of the St. Charles Hotel, upon which the sun shimmered for a moment, was no bigger than the top of old Aunt Chloe’s thimble.

What do I remember next?  The gray sky and the fretful blue waters of the Gulf.  The steam-tug had long since let slip her hawsers and gone panting away with a derisive scream, as much as to say, “I’ve done my duty, now look out for yourself, old Typhoon!”