I could not stand it. I opened the back door and fled—fled to the cabin deck—to the hurricane deck—to the boiler deck—up stairs and down—and down and up—and back and forth, and forth and back half crazed—I knew not, cared not, where! I had half a mind to jump into the river, and take refuge from these and my other woes in the bosom of the Father of Waters—but didn’t. They pursued me everywhere; some of them, I believe, went in advance of me, to be ready to meet me at any new point I should flee to. My eyes, ears, mouth, nose, cheeks, chin, neck, hands and wrists were covered with them; and, while thus tormenting me, they sang musically in my ears, even as Nero played “Hail Columbia, happy land!” on a banjo, while Rome was burning. O, the agonies of that night! The thundering cannon of battle, the shrieking shell, the hissing bullet, and glistening bayonet, are mere toys compared with these fiendish tormentors! How I ever got through the night I cannot remember distinctly. It seems like a kind of long-continued dream to me. I have a vague recollection of standing at the bar and asking the bar-tender if he had “anything calculated to keep the mosquitoes away?” This scene recurs to me as having been repeated several times that night; but I think it only originated in the imagery of delirium—for I must have grown delirious. The next night, for some reason, they “let up” on us a little, and I got some sleep; and early on the second morning after leaving Cairo, we arrived at the “Mound City,” Saint Louis, the chief city of the Mississippi Valley. It was a charming morning, not too warm, and leaving my trunk on board, I walked up into the city for the purpose of securing lodgings for a month. Before I did so, the passengers had all bid each other good-by, and were beginning to go their different ways, wondering if any two of us should ever meet again. My aged companion bade me a cordial farewell, and took passage on the steamer “Post Boy,” bound up the Missouri river. The vain _young_ “Doctor,” whom I have mentioned, went to the Southern Hotel—one of the grandest and most aristocratic in the country—and registered his name, stating that he would remain a couple of weeks. That I may not be troubled to speak again of so worthless a fellow, I will here state, that, a week after, I met another fellow-passenger in Saint Louis, who told me that the “Doctor” had stayed four days at the Southern Hotel, and then absconded without paying his bill. This most pretentious and presumptuous of the passengers of the Nightingale, proved to be an unworthy loafer and a base fraud. Such is life! CHAPTER XXXII. SMITH’S EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES IN THE “MOUND CITY.”