Breakfast over, Abe bent his back to the oars, and they soon overhauled the wood-raft which had passed them. As the flatboat came alongside, one of the raft-men strolled over to the edge of the logs and hailed them. He was a tall, rangy Tennesseean in homespun. “Big doin’s in Baton Rouge las’ night,” said he, shooting a dark stream of tobacco juice into the yellow current. “So?” replied Abe. “We tied up down river here a ways, an’ slept peaceful.” “Hum, ye don’t look it,” said the raft-man, casting an eye at the red-tinged bandage around Abe’s head. “I figgered maybe you-all was in the fight.” “What fight?” asked Allen. “Ain’t ye heard? Why, it seems there was a bunch o’ river-men in Sancho’s bar, down by the levee, an’ Jack Murrell an’ two of his gang come in an’ ordered drinks. Pretty soon somebody spotted ’em, an’ a row started. Murrell an’ his men shot their way out, an’ they’d ha’ got clean away, only their hosses took fright and begun rarin’ around. ’Fore Bull Whaley could git mounted somebody put a knife in him--killed him dead. An’ they grabbed Sam Jukes, too, an’ put him in the lock-up. Murrell had his luck with him, same as usual. He gits on that ol’ three-stockin’ hoss o’ his an’ goes a-sailin’ off up the north road, belly to the ground. He ain’t got as many friends in Baton Rouge as he has up river.” “He’s got plenty in Natchez,” Abe replied. “If he don’t break his neck on the way, he’ll be safe enough up thar.” “Huh!” laughed the raft hand. “Break his neck? Not him! He was born to be hung.” They discussed the weather, the state of the river, and General Jackson’s chances in the coming presidential election. Allen traded a peck of potatoes for some pipe tobacco, and they were about to pass on, when the raft-man introduced a new topic. “Did ye see them notices stuck up around Natchez an’ Baton Rouge?” he asked. “Five thousand dollars reward fer findin’ some boy that’s lost. A lad ’bout the size an’ looks o’ the one you got thar, I should say.” He cast a keen glance in Tad’s direction. Tad grinned and stood up, stretching, so that his ragged clothes and sunburnt legs and arms became visible. “Yeah?” he remarked. “Some rich city kid from back east, wasn’t he?” If the Tennessee man had had any suspicions, they were allayed. He nodded. “Some feller was tellin’ how a broadhorn steerer from up the Ohio had done got hold o’ the boy an’ was boun’ to git the reward,” said he. “Humph,” grunted Abe, noncommittally, and dug deep with the oars. The _Katy Roby_ went lumbering downstream, leaving the raft astern. “So long,” called Allen and Tad. “See you in New Orleans.” “Gosh,” chuckled Allen as they drew out of earshot. “You sure fooled him that time, son. In that rig I doubt if yer own Pappy’d know ye.” Notwithstanding the late start, Abe had put twenty miles behind them by the time Allen announced that the noon meal was ready.