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She had not noticed that fact so much at the time, as afterward, when she subjected him to the merciless scrutiny of a woman who has heretofore discovered in men only depravity, ignorance, selfishness, or brutality. Her first thought had been to use Terabon, play with him, and, if she could, hurt him.
"Make good money writing for the newspapers?" "Enough to live on," Terabon replied, "and, of course, it's living, coming down Old Mississip'!" "You like it travelling in that skiff? Where do you sleep?" "I stretch that canvas between the gunwales in those staples; I put those hoops up, and draw a canvas over the whole length of the boat. I can sleep like a baby in its cradle."
He would rather scramble in the loose silt and risk his neck than climb that easy stairway yes, indeed! Terabon, drifting by, close at hand, gazed at the scene. From that craft Negroes had gone forth to commit crime; white men had gone out to do murder, and one of them had rolled down those steps, shot dead.
And Nelia Carline pulled out into the current and followed her river friend, Lester Terabon, who had gone on ahead to save her husband from the river pirates.
The doctor said Prebol ought to go into the hospital for at least a week, and Terabon found Prebol's pirate friends, hidden up the slough on their boat, not venturing to go out except at night. They took the little red shanty-boat up the slough, and Prebol went to the hospital.
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.
She gave Parson Rasba, whom she had brought home with her to bury her husband, $5,000 for his services. Then, after the estate was all settled up, she returned to Memphis, and Terabon met her at the Union Station, dutifully, as she had told him to do.
For a minute remorse and comprehension had flickered in his mind, now he looked ahead to a good time in Mendova, to sight-seeing, sporting around, genial friends, and all the rest. Argument would do no good, and Terabon retreated from his position as friend and helper to that of an observer and a recorder of facts.
"Crele's a good feller. Sent word down to have us take cyar of her, an' Prebol, the fool, didn't know 'er, hadn't heard. Look what she give him, bang in the shoulder! That old Prophet'll take cyar of him, course. See how hit works out. She shined up to Terabon, all right." "I 'low I better talk to him," Despard suggested. "Terabon's a good sport.
"Lester Terabon; I'm a newspaper writer; I live in New York; I came down the Mississippi looking for things to tell about in the newspapers. You see, lots of people hardly know there's a Mississippi River, and it's the most interesting place I ever heard of." "Terabon? I expect you all's the feller Whiskey Williams was tellin' about; yo'n a feller name of Carline was up by No. 8.
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