Read Online The Mystery on the Mississippi by Julie Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Campbell
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before, but they always stole something, and we tracked them down.”
“Then you don’t intend to try to find out who the stowaway was? You can make fun of Honey and me and our agency if you want to, but we’ve tracked down some pretty mysterious people.”
“I’m sure you have. In the first place, I don’t honestly believe that there was a stowaway on board or that anyone jumped overboard. As I told you, the water back there is awfully deep, and no one who knows the river would ever try to swim it. Some pretty ugly fish live in the depths.”
“How big?” Mart asked, instantly alert. “Paddlefish up to two hundred pounds.”
“Jeepers!” Trixie’s blue eyes popped.
“You never thought the Mississippi had fish that big, did you, Trixie? Well, it does. A paddlefish looks something like a shark. Say, did you ever see a catfish... a really big catfish?”
“How big?” Mart asked again.
“Six feet long. Very ugly... blue black... popeyes... barbels that jut out.”
Honey nudged closer to Trixie.
Captain Martin smiled. “You ought to hear the Cajuns down around New Orleans tell about big fish. If you were only going there with us, I’d have Shanty Jim, on the levee there, tell you about a garfish he saw. ‘Old One-Eye’ he calls him. Jim swears that he wears a gold crown and smokes a pipe, pushes up sandbars for tows to go aground on, and swishes his tail to make currents—and even that sometimes, when he gets hungry, he picks off a deckhand for lunch!” Trixie and Honey, who had sat listening, relaxed and laughed.
“Laugh if you want to,” Captain Martin said. “I long ago learned not to laugh at any legend I heard about the river. I’ll tell you one thing: Roustabouts along the river give Old One-Eye a wide berth. When they get all tuckered out, they drop tobacco in the water for the old garfish. They like it when he lights up his pipe. The smoke gets thicker than fog, and boats have to tie up. Then they get a rest from totin’ bales of cotton. See?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” Trixie said solemnly. “But to get back to that man who jumped overboard—”
“Forget that for the present, Trixie. I’m going on watch now. Come up to the pilothouse for a clear view of the river. It’s a beautiful morning.”
As the Catfish Princess faithfully prodded its long tow toward Cairo, Captain Martin, sensing the restlessness of his visitors, talked.
“The river’s in my blood. It’s been in my blood since I was a baby, for I was born in sight of the Mississippi. I was a lad of ten, running errands on the levee in St. Louis, when I made up my mind that life on the river was for me. Steamboats carried freight and passengers in those days. I got a job watching the roof of the pilothouse on the Crazy Nell , because sparks from the engine could set a boat afire. I was scared to death on my first job—scared I wouldn’t make good.
“I was young. I didn’t touch a hundred pounds on the scales. I tried to lift the chains and heavy ropes, but I couldn’t make it. I couldn’t even lift a bag of grain. I kept at it, though, and when I was fifteen, I was toting big loads and getting ten cents an hour. That wasn’t much, but I had my keep on the boat. On shore, I could get dinner on the waterfront for twenty cents, and a movie cost a nickel. I could outfit myself in used clothes for a dollar, in a store on the wharf, and pick up a pair of shoes for a quarter.”
“New shoes?” Mart wondered.
“Oh, no! Used shoes, but with a lot of wear still in ’em. Well, after that I worked as a deckhand, still on the Crazy Nell. Then I got to be a steersman.”
“Then you became a pilot?” Trixie asked.
“No. It took me three years before I got a pilot’s license. By that time, I knew every inch of the river, every bend, every cliff, the ghost trunk of every sycamore—you ought to see one of them shine out in the searchlight on a foggy night. I could even shake hands with swamp frogs and call ’em by
“Then you don’t intend to try to find out who the stowaway was? You can make fun of Honey and me and our agency if you want to, but we’ve tracked down some pretty mysterious people.”
“I’m sure you have. In the first place, I don’t honestly believe that there was a stowaway on board or that anyone jumped overboard. As I told you, the water back there is awfully deep, and no one who knows the river would ever try to swim it. Some pretty ugly fish live in the depths.”
“How big?” Mart asked, instantly alert. “Paddlefish up to two hundred pounds.”
“Jeepers!” Trixie’s blue eyes popped.
“You never thought the Mississippi had fish that big, did you, Trixie? Well, it does. A paddlefish looks something like a shark. Say, did you ever see a catfish... a really big catfish?”
“How big?” Mart asked again.
“Six feet long. Very ugly... blue black... popeyes... barbels that jut out.”
Honey nudged closer to Trixie.
Captain Martin smiled. “You ought to hear the Cajuns down around New Orleans tell about big fish. If you were only going there with us, I’d have Shanty Jim, on the levee there, tell you about a garfish he saw. ‘Old One-Eye’ he calls him. Jim swears that he wears a gold crown and smokes a pipe, pushes up sandbars for tows to go aground on, and swishes his tail to make currents—and even that sometimes, when he gets hungry, he picks off a deckhand for lunch!” Trixie and Honey, who had sat listening, relaxed and laughed.
“Laugh if you want to,” Captain Martin said. “I long ago learned not to laugh at any legend I heard about the river. I’ll tell you one thing: Roustabouts along the river give Old One-Eye a wide berth. When they get all tuckered out, they drop tobacco in the water for the old garfish. They like it when he lights up his pipe. The smoke gets thicker than fog, and boats have to tie up. Then they get a rest from totin’ bales of cotton. See?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” Trixie said solemnly. “But to get back to that man who jumped overboard—”
“Forget that for the present, Trixie. I’m going on watch now. Come up to the pilothouse for a clear view of the river. It’s a beautiful morning.”
As the Catfish Princess faithfully prodded its long tow toward Cairo, Captain Martin, sensing the restlessness of his visitors, talked.
“The river’s in my blood. It’s been in my blood since I was a baby, for I was born in sight of the Mississippi. I was a lad of ten, running errands on the levee in St. Louis, when I made up my mind that life on the river was for me. Steamboats carried freight and passengers in those days. I got a job watching the roof of the pilothouse on the Crazy Nell , because sparks from the engine could set a boat afire. I was scared to death on my first job—scared I wouldn’t make good.
“I was young. I didn’t touch a hundred pounds on the scales. I tried to lift the chains and heavy ropes, but I couldn’t make it. I couldn’t even lift a bag of grain. I kept at it, though, and when I was fifteen, I was toting big loads and getting ten cents an hour. That wasn’t much, but I had my keep on the boat. On shore, I could get dinner on the waterfront for twenty cents, and a movie cost a nickel. I could outfit myself in used clothes for a dollar, in a store on the wharf, and pick up a pair of shoes for a quarter.”
“New shoes?” Mart wondered.
“Oh, no! Used shoes, but with a lot of wear still in ’em. Well, after that I worked as a deckhand, still on the Crazy Nell. Then I got to be a steersman.”
“Then you became a pilot?” Trixie asked.
“No. It took me three years before I got a pilot’s license. By that time, I knew every inch of the river, every bend, every cliff, the ghost trunk of every sycamore—you ought to see one of them shine out in the searchlight on a foggy night. I could even shake hands with swamp frogs and call ’em by
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