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"We may be here for a month," said Peterson gloomily, looking at the Belle Helène, now rolling just a little, her keel fast full length in the mud-bar. "I don't think there's ever going to be any change of wind it'll blow steadily this way for a week, anyhow." "I presume, Peterson," said I coolly, "that you don't see the sun breaking through the clouds over there, at all.
Here was a grassy swamp that was a deep water channel the year before last; there was a fair-way in the process of silting up; there was a mud-bar with twenty-four feet, but steamers drawing twenty-seven feet could scrape over, as the mud was soft. The current round that bend raced at a good eleven knots.
"Who was it who shed crocodile tears at the prospect of shipping me North?" she inquired. "Speaking of tears," I observed, "somebody is likely to shed a number when Professor Farrago is picked up." "Pooh!" she said, and snapped her pretty, sun-tanned fingers; and I resumed the oars in time to avoid shipwreck on a large mud-bar.
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