“Yonder she goes!” he said, coolly, as he pointed out the window looking down the river. Yes, the _St. Louis_ had gone, and was just disappearing round a bend nearly half a mile distant. If the reader wants to know what pure, unalloyed anguish is, I can tell him that I experienced it on this occasion. There I was, fifty miles from my destination, and the propeller, on which I had spent several such happy days, gliding away and disappearing from my gaze, bearing from me the many good friends I had made among the passengers, whom I should now never, probably, see again, depriving me of the melancholy pleasure of bidding them good-by, and also of taking the address of a handsome young lady I fell in love with—to say nothing of my trunk, and some other articles I prized highly, scattered about in my state-room. “I told you so,” said I to my conscience-stricken companion. He gazed from the window, threw down his cue, and pronounced a great many words, in rapid succession, which, if found in the Scriptures, are not found exactly in the same order in which he uttered them. His case was worse than mine. His destination was Buffalo; and should we fail to reach Detroit ere the propeller should leave there—and we had little hope in that direction—he would lose four hundred miles of his ride. Besides, he had left his overcoat and revolver in his state-room, and who should answer for their safety? As for me, my trunk was checked to Detroit, and I felt sure that it would be put off there; but in my state-room were left my chess-board, a set of chessmen, and other property, amounting in all to the value of about fifteen dollars—and what hope had I of ever seeing them again? _Kein!_ “Well,” said I, “let us make the best of it.” “Yes, we might as well finish the game now,” said he, ruefully. “First,” I proposed, “let us drown our sorrows in a glass of beer.” “Agreed,” said he. And we did. “There’ll be another boat along soon,” observed the boy. “How soon?” we both asked, eagerly. “It ought to be here by eleven o’clock; that’s its time.” “Does it run to Detroit?” “Yes; it’s a little side-wheeler.” “Then we’ll watch for it.” “If you will give me a glass of beer,” said the boy, “I’ll watch for it, and tell you when it comes.” “Very well, watch for it. Whenever you see it coming, run and tell us, and we’ll give you the beer.” In less than half an hour, sure enough, we received the welcome intelligence that the boat was coming; and, giving the boy his beer, we hurried down to the landing, and reached it as the little steamer came up. We went aboard, and paid our fare to Detroit—another net loss of two dollars—and she soon moved on after the _St. Louis_. But we soon saw, with sinking hearts, that her speed was not equal to that of the propeller.