This manner jolted me. I was down at the foot again, in a moment. But I had to say just what I had said before. “Well, you’re a smart one!” said Mr. Bixby. “What’s the name of the _next_ point?” Once more I didn’t know. “Well, this beats anything. Tell me the name of any point or place I told you.” I studied a while and decided that I couldn’t. “Look here! What do you start out from, above Twelve-Mile Point, to cross over?” “I—I—don’t know.” “You—you—don’t know?” mimicking my drawling manner of speech. “What _do_ you know?” “I—I—nothing, for certain.” “By the great Cæsar’s ghost, I believe you! You’re the stupidest dunderhead I ever saw or ever heard of, so help me Moses! The idea of _you_ being a pilot—_you_! Why you don’t know enough to pilot a cow down a lane.” Oh, but his wrath was up! He was a nervous man, and he shuffled from one side of his wheel to the other as if the floor was hot. He would boil a while to himself, and then overflow and scald me again. “Look here! What do you suppose I told you the names of those points for?” I tremblingly considered a moment, and the devil of temptation provoked me to say: “Well—to—to—be entertaining, I thought.” This was a red flag to the bull. He raged and stormed so (he was crossing the river at the time) that I judge it made him blind, because he ran over the steering-gear of a trading-scow. Of course the traders sent up a volley of red-hot profanity. Never was a man so grateful as Mr. Bixby was; because he was brimful, and here were subjects who could _talk back_. He threw open a window, thrust his head out and such an eruption followed as I never had heard before. The fainter and farther away the scowmen’s curses drifted, the higher Mr. Bixby lifted his voice and the weightier his adjectives grew. When he closed the window he was empty. You could have drawn a seine through his system and not caught curses enough to disturb your mother with. Presently he said to me in the gentlest way: “My boy, you must get a little memorandum book; and every time I tell you a thing, put it down right away. There’s only one way to be a pilot, and that is to get this entire river by heart. You have to know it just like A B C.” That was a dismal revelation to me; for my memory was never loaded with anything but blank cartridges. However, I did not feel discouraged long. I judged that it was best to make allowances, for doubtless Mr. Bixby was “stretching.” Presently he pulled a rope and struck a few strokes on the big bell. The stars were all gone now, and the night was as black as ink. I could hear the wheels churn along the bank, but I was not entirely certain that I could see the shore. The voice of the invisible watchman called up from the hurricane deck: “What’s this, sir?” “Jones’s plantation.”