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“Fishin’s too good hyar, stranger,” they asserted, in lazy manner.

The lieutenant hustled away. Presently he returned.

“Ready,” he announced. “Our baggage will go by the steamer.”

So they descended to the lower deck, where the little squad of soldier recruits were waiting at the gunwale, with their muskets and haversacks.

“I’ve got enough for you, boy,” informed the lieutenant, to Ernest. “Your trunk will stay with the rest of the stuff.” And while a couple of roustabouts steadied the dug-out they all clambered cautiously in. A recruit seized one paddle, the Texan seized another that was lying in the bottom, and they shoved off without ceremony. The crowd above gawked after them.

“Better let me take the bows,” quoth the Texan. “Then I can see. We have to go a little careful. This river’s powerful full of snags.”

And it was fairly bristling with the jagged roots and branches of tree-trunks, some projecting well above the swirling current, some barely breaking the surface. Moreover, the dug-out, deep and narrow, and smooth of hull, was decidedly cranky. The soldier in the stern seemed not to be an expert paddler, and several times, in veering sharply, the boat canted with alarming readiness.