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Updated: May 9, 2025
There might be dozens of canoes moored on all sides, but to discover them in this pitch darkness was so obviously impossible that she almost made up her mind to abandon this part of her enterprise. Yet the narrow-beamed Fuegian craft she was in would hold only four more occupants, and that with a certain risk and unwieldiness.
"Your wire got me two days since and I came right up." "Any trace?" "Left here two days ago." "Three of them?" "Yes. Flat-bottomed, narrow-beamed boat, sloop-rigged pretty light." "Know anything of the men?" "Only the big one. Calls himself Colonel Richford. Had a fake copper outfit in the mountains east of Alamo." "Where do you think they're headed for?"
Hazel had seen the type in use among the coast Siwashes, twenty-five feet in length, narrow-beamed, the sides cut to a half inch in thickness, the bottom left heavier to withstand scraping over rock, and to keep it on an even keel. A rude and tricky craft, but one wholly efficient in capable hands. In a week it was finished.
They took their guns and a day's provisions and carried a long, narrow-beamed canoe down to the shore. It was a dugout, quite unlike the graceful birch affairs that Jeremy had seen among the Penobscots, but serviceable and seaworthy enough. Job, happy to be on the water once more, took the stern paddle, Bob knelt in the bow, and Jeremy squatted amidships with the blankets and guns.
Yes, Brother Iconoclast, the 2 x 4 newspaper men and the sensational preachers and the prurient prudes who write novels and the unfructified old maids and the narrow-beamed self-elected evangelists are talking, but they do not elevate the American stage to any great extent. It bids fair to remain the same excellent school of preparation for the penitentiary and the bagnio.
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