The rower hastened to surrender the great, clumsy oars and scramble down, out of the way. And then indeed began a race! The slenderer lines of the keel-boat gave her a slight advantage, which Abe had to overcome by the sheer force of his strokes. During that moment while the oars were changing hands, the tall Indiana boy quickened the beat of his swing and succeeded in pulling up till he was a shade ahead of the other craft. From this point he could watch his rival without turning his head, while the redbeard was forced to crane his neck in order to see what Abe was doing. So they went, side by side, for the best part of a mile, the muddy water churning in yellow foam behind them. The other four men in the keel-boat’s crew bellowed constant encouragement to their mate, and one of them seized the steering-sweep, sculling from side to side to help them along. Tad saw this maneuver and promptly matched it by doing the same thing with the _Katy Roby’s_ stern oar. At the end of ten minutes the furious pace began to tell on the red-whiskered rower. He was wilting visibly, while Abe, who had been at it for more than an hour, was still pulling as strongly as ever. One of the keel-boat men climbed to the fore deck and held a whisky jug to the lips of his champion. This measure seemed to put new vigor into him for about ten strokes. Then he stumbled and caught a crab, and the race was over. Abe pulled far enough ahead so that there should be no doubt about it, then waited, resting on his oars. He was panting hard, but his grin made him look anything but exhausted. As Tad came forward, he mopped his forehead with his sleeve. “Son,” said he, between breaths, “don’t ever let the other feller know you’re as tired as he is. If he thinks you’re still fresh he’ll quit.” After that they drifted for a while, and toward noon the big keel-boat dropped down abreast of them again. The ruddy-bearded captain steered close enough for conversation and grinned sociably as he spoke. “Whar you from?” he asked. Abe told him and came back with a similar question. “We’re bringin’ a load o’ furs down from St. Louis,” answered the keel-boat skipper. “Ol’ Man Carillon, he’s scairt to ship by steamboat--’fraid they’ll blow up. So he still sends his furs this way. More’n a thousand prime beaver skins we’ve got, an’ plenty of other kinds besides. That’d be a haul worth even John Murrell’s time, eh? I’ve got two extra men in the crew jest ’count o’ him an’ his gang.” “They tell me he’s back,” said Abe. “Sure thing,” replied the other. “He was layin’ low fer a couple o’ months, up river, but this last week he’s been seen ridin’ the roads on that three-stockin’ boss o’ his--him an’ Bull Whaley an’ Sam Jukes. That means thar’s some sort o’ devilment a-bilin’.” “Well,” Abe answered, “jes’ so he stays on horseback an’ don’t come meddlin’ with river folks, he’ll mebbe keep a whole skin.”