The disgusted manager left his man in charge of the new managers, and going at once to the editors, explained how he had been duped, and begged to be “let down gently” before the public.  These gentlemen not only acceded to the request, but even offered to get up a “benefit” for Mr. Jones, who declined the honor, and waited only long enough in the city to see Mr. Cloud with his boat and whiskey fade out of sight down the Ohio, when he returned to Philadelphia considerably lighter in pocket, having provided funds for purchasing the boat and other necessaries, and full of righteous indignation against Mr. Cloud and his “bright idea.”

The little skiff went on its way down the Ohio, and was met with enthusiasm at each landing.  The citizens of Hickman, Kentucky, described the voyage of Mr. Cloud as one continuous ovation.  Five thousand people gathered along the banks below that town to welcome “the poor northern man who was rowing to New Orleans on a five-thousand-dollar bet, hoping to win his wager that he might have means to support his large family of children.”  One old gentleman seemed to have his doubts about the truth of this statement, “for,” said he, “when the celebrated oarsman appeared, and landed, he repaired immediately to a low drinking-saloon, and announced that he was the greatest oarsman in America,” &c.

The “boys” about the town subscribed a fund, and invested it in five gallons of whiskey, which Cloud took aboard his skiff when he departed.  He plainly stated that the conditions of the bet prevented his sleeping under a roof while on his way; so he curled himself up in his blankets and slept on the veranda floors.  The man must have had great powers of endurance, or he could not have rowed so long in the hot sun at that malarious season of the year.  His chief sustenance was whiskey; and at one town, near Cairo, I was assured by the best authority, ten gallons of that fiery liquor were stowed away in his skiff.  Such disregard of nature’s laws soon told upon the plucky fellow, and his voyage came to an end when almost in sight of his goal.  The malaria he was breathing and the whiskey he was drinking set fire to his blood, and the fatal congestive chills were the inevitable result.

The papers of New Orleans had announced the approach of the great oarsman, and the planters were ready to give him a cordial welcome, when one day a man who was walking near the shore of the Mississippi, in the parish of Iberville, and looking out upon the river, saw a boat of a peculiar model whirling around in the eddies.  He at once launched his boat and pushed out to the object which had excited his curiosity.  Stretched upon the bottom of the strange craft was a man dressed in the garb of a northern boatman.  At first he appeared to be dead; but a careful examination showed that life was not yet extinct.  The unknown man was carried to the nearest plantation, and there, among strangers whose hearts beat kindly for the unfortunate boatman, John C. Cloud expired without uttering one word.  The coroner,