The two chums went ashore, with numerous errands to do, that they declared would take them until noon. Yet in less than one hour later Frank caught the whistle from the cotton piles on the levee, that told him Bluff and Jerry were back, “keeping shady” until he could carry out his part of the little programme. Will was very busy just then, dabbling in his daylight developing bath, so that anyone could see it was utterly out of the question for him to leave, and go on an errand. Frank carried out his part of the plan very cleverly. And old Luther, taking the note which Frank had purposely sealed in an envelope, went ashore, and up toward the city. After he had vanished from view two skulking figures came aboard, chuckling with delight over the apparent success of Frank’s plan. “Get the hawser aboard, and let’s push off,” said Frank, a little concerned lest Luther should come in sight even then, and demand to be taken back. The boys worked with willing hands, and in a short time the _Pot Luck_ was once more afloat, drifting down the wide river, and leaving Memphis and Luther Snow behind. Still, none of the boys seemed as jubilant as they had anticipated, in getting rid of their incubus. The fact was, that Luther had somehow rather gained a little hold upon their affections, and secretly they were sorry to have him go. Only for that strange clause in the note of Uncle Felix they might have allowed him to remain on board the houseboat until New Orleans was reached, no matter if he were Marcus Stackpole or not. Often would they ponder over this strange matter; and it must form the subject of more than a few earnest talks; yet, not having the key to the puzzle, they must always confess themselves baffled. As Frank had truly said, the riddle was not to be solved until they stood face to face with the gentleman who owned the _Pot Luck_, and they had plied him with questions. Often when some darky from the bank would call out a sportive remark, intended for those aboard the passing houseboat, the boys would look at each other in a queer way. For the same idea must have flashed into the mind of each one; and this that it might be the wily Marcus Stackpole trying a new game upon them, with the idea of once more getting aboard the _Pot Luck_. Below Vicksburg they took stock of the time, and found that in all they had been just seven weeks on the voyage. Another one ought to see them safely at their journey’s end, if all went well. Being on a boat that could only drift, there was no chance to attempt any of the numerous “cutoffs” that began to be met with, every day now. And so sticking to the big river, they “boomed” along on the flood from shortly after daylight up to nearly dark, covering scores of miles each day with the swift flow of the current.