her
right, and who wouldn't. They especially warned her against stopping
anywhere near Island 37.

"They're bad there--and mean." Despard shook his head, gravely.

"I won't stop in there," Nelia promised. "River folks anybody can get
along with, but those Up-the-Bankers!"

"Hit's seo," Jet cried. "They don't have no feelings for nobody."

"You'll be dropping on down?" Nelia asked.

"D'rectly!" Cope admitted. "We 'lowed we'd stop into Mendova. You stop
in there an' see Palura; he'll treat you right. He was in the riveh
hisse'f once. You talk to him----"

"What did Terabon and Mr. Carline go on in? What kind of a boat?"

"A gasolene cruiser."

"Did he say where he'd be?"

"Terabon? No. Ask into Mendova or into Memphis. They can likely tell."

"Thank you, boys! I'm awful glad you've no hard feelings on account of
my shooting your partner; I couldn't know what good fellows you are.
We'll see you later."

Her smile bewitched them; she went aboard her boat, pulled over into the
main current, and floated away in the sunset--her favourite river hour.

After hours of argument, debate, doubts, they, too, pulled out and
floated past Fort Pillow.

CHAPTER XXVI

Parson Rasba piled the books on the crap table in his cabin and stood
them in rows with their lettered backs up. He read their titles, which
were fascinating: "Arabian Nights," "Representative Men," "Plutarch's
Lives," "Modern Painters," "Romany Rye"--a name that made him shudder,
for it meant some terrible kind of whiskey to his mind--"Lavengro," a
foreign thing, "Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases," "The Stem
Dictionary," "Working Principles of Rhetoric"--he wondered what rhetoric
meant--"The Fur Buyers' Guide," "Stones of Venice," "The French
Revolution," "Sartor Resartus," "Poe's Works," "Balzac's Tales," and
scores of other titles.

All at once the Mississippi had brought down to him these treasures and
a fair woman with blue eyes and a smile of understanding and sympathy,
who had handed them to him, saying:

"I want to do something for your mission boat; will you let me?"

No fairyland, no enchantment, no translation from poverty and sorrow to
a realm of wealth and happiness could have caught the soul of the
Prophet Rasba as this revelation of unimagined, undreamed-of riches as
he plucked the fruits of learning and enjoyed their luxuries. He had
descended in his humility to the last, least task for which he felt
himself worthy. He had