He turned and gazed toward the stern of his boat as she swung into the clear and squared herself for the point of the bend. The moonbeams glittered and danced on the waves in the wake of the steamer, and the rays touched the snow on the hills with diamond sparks. The tall sycamores on either side stood clearly outlined against the wintry sky, and the white corn-shocks on the distant ridge were silhouetted like Indian wigwams. Here and there a light glimmered from some cabin window, and a dog barked defiance at the boat as it sped up stream. "The States ought to be about due," said Turpin. "I think I hear her now," said Jenkins. When they got up to the point of the bend where they could see up the river, they saw the States coming down. From her forward smoke-stacks were the signal lights of emerald green and ruby red, trembling in delicate brilliancy against the background of silvery sky. The splash of her ponderous wheels as they churned the water, seemed to vibrate into a song of gathering power. When the two boats were about eight hundred yards apart, Jenkins turned to Turpin and said, "Blow two blasts; I'll take the left side." Turpin sounded the blasts, and Jenkins headed for the Indiana shore. Jacob Remlin, the pilot on the States, blew one blast of his whistle just as Turpin sounded the first signal on the America. Jenkins on the America, did not hear Remlin's one signal, because it sounded at the same time of the first signal from the America. Remlin on the States, heard the last one of the signals from the America, taking it for an answer to his own signal, and he also headed his boat for the Indiana shore. Both men violated the rules of signals. Remlin should not have blown any signal until he heard from the up-stream boat, and Jenkins, not hearing any signal from the States, should have stopped his boat. Jenkins was standing on the starboard side, that placing him behind the chimney, and he did not see the States until she came out across his bow. "My God!" shouted Turpin, as he saw the States bearing down upon them like some ferocious monster, "We're lost!" The boats came together with a fearful crash. The smoke-stacks groaned and hissed, and great clouds of smoke rolled over the scene. The first shock of the collision brought a sudden check to the dancing on the America, throwing many to the floor and mixing up the whole assembly into a confused mass. Heads were peering through the transoms of the staterooms and voices excitedly calling, "What's the matter?" John Briscoe, the watchman, came hurriedly through the cabin and said, "The States and the America have run into each other!" The strains of music had ceased giving way to anxious inquiries on every side. The officers of the boat were running to and fro, giving orders, the negro cabin-boys adding to the chaos of the scene by loud and far-reaching cries.