ra's killed up!"

Prebol shouted out for details, and the passer-by, slowing down, gave a
few more:

"Had trouble with the police, an' they shot him daid into his own dance
floor--and Mendova's no good no more!"

"Now what the boys goin' to do when they make a haul?" Prebol demanded
in great disgust of Parson Rasba. "Fust the planters shot up whiskey
boats; then the towns went dry, an' now they closed up Palura's an' shot
him daid. Wouldn't hit make yo' sick, Parson! They ain't no fun left
nowheres for good sports."

Rasba could not make any comment. He was far from sure of his
understanding. He felt as though his own life had been sheltered, remote
from these wild doings of murders and shanty-boat-fleet dances and a
congregation assembling in a gambling boat handed to him for a mission!
He could not quite get his bearings, but the books blessed him with
their viewpoints, as numerous as the points of the compass. He could not
turn a page or a chapter without finding something that gave him a
different outlook or a novel idea.

They landed in late on Monday at Mendova bar, just above the wharf. Up
the slough were many shanty-boats, and gaunt dogs and floppy buzzards
fed along the bar and down the wharf.

Groups of men and women were scattered along both the slough and the
river banks, talking earnestly and seriously. Rasba, bound up town to
buy supplies, heard the name of Palura on many lips; the policemen on
their beats waltzed their heavy sticks about in debonair skilfulness;
and stooped, rat-like men passing by, touched their hats nervously to
the august bluecoats.

When Rasba returned to the boat, he found a man waiting for him.

"My name is Lester Terabon," the man said. "I landed in Saturday, and
went up town. When I returned, my skiff and outfit were all
gone--somebody stole them."

"Sho!" Rasba exclaimed. "I've heard of you. You write for newspapers?"

"Yes, sir, and I'm some chump, being caught that way."

"They meant to rob you?" Rasba asked.

"Why, of----I don't know!" Terabon saw a new outlook on the question.

"Did they go down?"

"Yes, sir, I heard so. I don't care about my boat, typewriter, and
duffle; what bothers me is my notebooks. Months of work are in them. If
I could get them back!"

"What can I do for you?"

"I don't know--I'm going down stream; it's down below, somewhere."

"I need someone to help me," Rasba said. "I've a wounded man here who
has a doctor with him. If he goes