Very quietly he made his way through the willows to the levee. The piling of the dock rose close by--almost close enough to touch. On his stomach, he crawled over the top of the embankment and slid like a muskrat into the yellow water beyond. In a few quick strokes he was under the landing and hidden from view. He held on to one of the big cypress piles and gulped a swallow or two of river water to take the edge off his thirst. Then he made his way forward under the shadowy planking of the wharf. Suddenly there was a shout, somewhere above, and a pounding of many feet that went by over his head, shaking dust down through the cracks. He stayed where he was, his heart beating fast. Then there came the loud blast of a steamboat whistle, and he understood the reason for the stampede. Alternately swimming and stopping to listen, he made his way to the outer end of the wharf. There, holding to one of the great clumps of mooring piles, he watched the slim white prow of the pride of the river--the _Natchez_ herself--come sweeping in to the landing. With a swiftness at which he marveled, the great paddles swung her into position, and amid the shouts of deck hands he heard the heavy cable drop with a crash on the planks over his head. In another moment the big steamer was moored, side-on to the wharf, and the gangplanks were run out. The steady rumble of loading began. From where Tad was he could see forward under the broad overhanging deck of the _Natchez_ to the low patch of daylight at her bows. And as he looked, an idea came to him. He remembered how the forward end of the _Tecumseh_, jutting well beyond the landing, had seemed to be almost within arm’s reach of the flatboat, that first morning in Natchez. Under the shelter of the steamer, he could get many feet closer to his goal without being seen. He let go of the post to which he had been holding, and swam out under the boat’s deck. It was like being in a long, low-roofed, watery tunnel. The deck was only two or three feet above the level of the river and was built out from the hull a good ten feet. It was shored up by a row of diagonal braces, and to these Tad clung, pulling himself slowly along. When he reached the end of the wharf he could see that his hopes were at least partly justified. The steamer’s prow extended at least thirty feet nearer to the moored flatboats, and he was certain that for the best part of that distance he would be well hidden from eyes on the landing. Keeping as far as possible under the projecting shelf, he pulled himself forward by the bracing timbers. Finally he came to a point where the deck narrowed rapidly toward the bow and no longer afforded any cover. As nearly as he could judge, about fifteen yards still separated him from the _Katy Roby_. He was close enough to see every homely plank and seam of the little craft, even to the familiar marks of Abe’s mighty ax on the hewn corner posts.