Abe grinned good-naturedly. “That was up in God’s own country, whar I knew a thing or two,” he answered. “We all make mistakes when we git in a strange place. But you kin gamble on it, I won’t make this one twice.” The afternoon was half gone when they got back into the main river. Tad had translated the French name of the picturesque backwater into which they had blundered, and Allen made frequent remarks about Abe’s excursion to “Aunt Lizzie’s Bay,” as he called it. The long-legged Hoosier stood it for a while in silence, then made a casual reference to Memphis and Natchez that effectually silenced his tormentor. Abe had been rowing almost without a stop since morning and as soon as they reached the broad yellow flood of the Mississippi once more, he turned the oars over to Allen. “I’m glad, as a matter o’ fact, that we got in thar,” the big backwoodsman told Tad, as he sat down to rest. “Fer years I’ve heard tell, from the men on the river, about these bayous that go stragglin’ off from the big channel an’ wander through the swamps into the Gulf. Now I’ve seen one, which I most likely never would, if we hadn’t lost our way.” After supper Abe mounted the fore deck again, and they pushed on steadily until dusk fell. There was a small landing with two or three houses in sight on the west bank, and to it they directed their course. Other flatboats were moored along the levee. As Abe tied up close to them, he hailed the occupants of the nearest craft. “How fur do ye figger it is to New Orleans?” he asked. “Not more’n twenty-five mile,” the other flatboat hand replied. “We aim to make it by noon.” They spread their blankets and said their good-nights. Tad could not go to sleep at first for thinking of the morrow. Only a half-day’s journey to New Orleans and his father! For the twentieth time his eager mind anticipated their meeting. Would he be recognized? Allen had said even his own Pappy wouldn’t know him, but he had no fear of that. Tad could guess at Allen’s thoughts as he lay there on the verge of sleep. They would be full of the Creole girls and the pretty quadroons, and what a dashing figure he would cut amongst them in his store clothes. And Abe--what was he thinking, rolled in his blanket on the forward deck, under the stars? Not about girls. Tad knew him well enough to be sure of that. The big young river-man had ideas, queer, searching ideas about people--all sorts of people, rich and poor--about niggers, even--and about right and wrong. He wrestled with them just as he had wrestled with the Tennessee bear-hunter, long and hard, until they were down.