It was on the last night of the voyage that Phil broached the thought that he had been turning over in his mind ever since his talk with the rescued Mississippi planter. The journey was practically finished. _The Last of the Flatboats_ would reach New Orleans about ten o’clock the next morning. The big round moon illuminated the broad, placid river. Supper was ended. The lights were in their places. There was no water in the bilge. The day’s work was done, and the hardy young fellows were lolling about the deck, talking all sorts of trivial things, when Phil introduced the subject. “I say, boys, does it occur to you that we fellows have a splendid opportunity before us if we choose to accept it?” “Are you meditating a jump overboard?” asked Irv, “or did you just now remember the great truth that fills my mind, namely, that there’s enough of that beef pie left to make a good midnight supper all round?” “No, for once I’m serious, Irv,” said Phil, whose new habit of seriousness had grown upon him with increasing responsibility, until all the boys observed the change in him with wonder, not unmixed with amusement. “All right, then,” said Irv; “go ahead. We’re ‘at attention.’” “What is it, Phil?” asked Will Moreraud, seeing that Irv’s light chatter annoyed the boy, or at the least distracted his attention. “You’ve something worth while to say. So we’ll listen.” Phil broke into the middle of his subject. “Why shouldn’t we fellows all get a college education?” he asked. “Our parents aren’t able to give it to us,” answered Constant. “No, but we are able to get it for ourselves,” answered Phil. “That gentleman up there in Mississippi wanted to help us do it, but I refused that offer for the whole party.” Then he reported the conversation he had had with the planter, and his comrades heartily approved his course in refusing assistance. “But we can do the thing ourselves,” Phil continued. “Let me explain. After we built this flatboat and equipped her and made up a purse for our running expenses, we each had about a hundred dollars of our pig-iron money left. Since then we have made one thousand dollars apiece out of the Jim Hughes affair. So when we get back home we shall have eleven hundred dollars apiece to the good, besides whatever we make clear out of the trip. That ought to be considerably more, but we won’t count it because it’s a chicken that isn’t hatched yet. At any rate, it will more than pay our fares back to Vevay, so when we get home we shall have eleven or twelve hundred dollars apiece. Now that is plenty to take us through college.” “Well, I don’t know,” said Irv. “I hear of young college men who spend from one thousand to five thousand dollars a year.”