They took off some of his clothes and wrapped him in his blanket. Then Abe stretched his big arms and spat over the gunwale disgustedly. “There’s no law to stop a feller from makin’ a fool of himself,” he remarked. “Only ye’d think plain common sense ought to tell him.” And with that they went to bed. Allen made a very unheroic figure next morning. His complexion was a sort of greenish yellow, and he refused all food with groans. “What about prices on the cargo?” Abe asked him. “Want to stay an’ unload some?” Allen shook his head. “Too cheap,” said he. “Let’s hold the stuff fer New Orleans an’ git thar as soon as we kin.” Whereupon he rolled over once more and lay in a miserable heap while Abe and Tad made preparations for departure. They needed sugar and white flour, and before casting off, Abe made a hurried trip up into the town to get them. When he came back his face was grave. “They say there’s a heap o’ damage from the high water all along below here,” he told Tad. “We’ll have to watch sharp and help folks out whar we kin. An’ then I heard another piece o’ news. They say this outlaw John Murrell is back from up river, an’ him an’ his gang are startin’ to make life miserable fer the planters betwixt here an’ Natchez. The storekeeper wanted to skeer me, I reckon. He claimed Murrell would sink a flatboat an’ drown the crew fer a ten-dollar note. But I don’t pay much heed to that sort o’ talk. “An’ anyhow, if he wants our ten dollars, let him try it. I’d sort o’ like to see Mr. Murrell fer myself an’ find out if he’s such a terrible feller.” Tad was not quite so sure he wanted to test the notorious outlaw’s mettle, but he agreed that it might be thrilling to get a glimpse of him. They got off before the morning was far advanced, and soon overtook some of the other flatboats which had started before them. Abe took a keen delight in overhauling them, one after another, and tossing back a gibe or two at each vessel they passed. At length there was only one craft left in sight ahead of them--a long, trimly-built keel-boat, with lines that were almost graceful compared to those of the _Katy Roby_. She was making good headway, due to the efforts of a husky bow-oarsman, but Abe’s extra-long sweeps and the tremendous power he put into his stroke were rapidly eating up the distance between the two boats. Just as the bow of the broadhorn drew even with her rival’s steering-oar, another figure sprang to the fore deck of the keel-boat. It was the big red-bearded river-man who had asked Abe about the length of his legs. He swung an arm in vigorous gesture, and his voice roared out across the water. “Git down from thar, ye lousy swab,” he cried to the oarsman. “Let somebody pull that knows a sweep from a shovel.”