The _Robert Burns_ continued on, down to New Orleans. The long-nosed man kept to the cabin, mainly, where a number of rough passengers spent their time drinking and gambling. The Fremont man was about the quietest of all the passengers, mingling little, talking little. He exchanged a few civil words with Mr. Adams, and kindly greeted Charley, when they were near one another. That was all. Charley thought rather the more of him, that he was not the blustering, boasting kind, even though he had blazed the long trail across to California, with Fremont and Carson. He evidently was a man of deeds, not words. New Orleans was reached in the afternoon--and a fine big city it looked to be, as the _Robert Burns_ whistled hoarsely and swung for the levee. However, the Forty-niners aboard her had not much thought for the looks of the city; their minds were more upon whether the _Georgia_ had arrived, and how soon they could get aboard her, for the Isthmus and California gold fields. In the excitement of bustling ashore Charley forgot all about the long-nosed man, who disappeared with the other scattering passengers. "Where's the dock of the Isthmus steamers?" queried Mr. Adams, of a lounger, as he and Charley landed, the roll of bedding on Mr. Adams's shoulder. "Eet is still down the river, m'sieur," answered the man--who was a young French creole. "M'sieur would better ride than walk." "All right. Thank you," and Mr. Adams hailed an odd carriage, drawn by one horse between a of long curved shafts. They piled in. "To the Isthmus dock," ordered Mr. Adams. "You want to catch the _Georgia_?" asked the driver, "We do." "She's about coming in. They're looking for her." "Will I have time to get our tickets?" "Plenty. She'll lie over till morning." "All right. Go ahead." [Illustration: From New Orleans to San Francisco, 1849. The Charley Adams party started from St. Louis. The majority of the people took ship at New York, and their boats picked up more passengers at New Orleans] The driver flung out his lash, and away they whirled, down a rough street, along the river. The dock bore a large sign, which said: "Steamers for the Isthmus and California." There was an enormous pile of baggage and a crowd of people, of all kinds, waiting. But the _Georgia_ had not come in yet. Mr. Adams left Charley there to watch their baggage and was driven away in haste to get their tickets. Suddenly a cry arose: "There she comes! That's she!" Down the broad river--never so broad as here--welled a cloud of black smoke, and a big steamer surged into view. _What_ a big thing she was! She could carry two or three _Robert Burnses_. She was a side-wheeler, of course, but her paddle boxes stood as high as houses. Across her pilot house was a gilt sign reading "Georgia"--and on her paddle box, as she swung around, appeared another "Georgia," in large black letters.