"D'rectly!" Cope admitted. "We 'lowed we'd stop into Mendova. You stop in there an' see Palura; he'll treat you right. He was in the riveh hisse'f once. You talk to him----" "What did Terabon and Mr. Carline go on in? What kind of a boat?" "A gasolene cruiser." "Did he say where he'd be?" "Terabon? No. Ask into Mendova or into Memphis. They can likely tell." "Thank you, boys! I'm awful glad you've no hard feelings on account of my shooting your partner; I couldn't know what good fellows you are. We'll see you later." Her smile bewitched them; she went aboard her boat, pulled over into the main current, and floated away in the sunset--her favourite river hour. After hours of argument, debate, doubts, they, too, pulled out and floated past Fort Pillow. CHAPTER XXVI Parson Rasba piled the books on the crap table in his cabin and stood them in rows with their lettered backs up. He read their titles, which were fascinating: "Arabian Nights," "Representative Men," "Plutarch's Lives," "Modern Painters," "Romany Rye"--a name that made him shudder, for it meant some terrible kind of whiskey to his mind--"Lavengro," a foreign thing, "Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases," "The Stem Dictionary," "Working Principles of Rhetoric"--he wondered what rhetoric meant--"The Fur Buyers' Guide," "Stones of Venice," "The French Revolution," "Sartor Resartus," "Poe's Works," "Balzac's Tales," and scores of other titles. All at once the Mississippi had brought down to him these treasures and a fair woman with blue eyes and a smile of understanding and sympathy, who had handed them to him, saying: "I want to do something for your mission boat; will you let me?" No fairyland, no enchantment, no translation from poverty and sorrow to a realm of wealth and happiness could have caught the soul of the Prophet Rasba as this revelation of unimagined, undreamed-of riches as he plucked the fruits of learning and enjoyed their luxuries. He had descended in his humility to the last, least task for which he felt himself worthy. He had humbly been grateful for even that one thing left for him to do: find Jock Drones for his mother. He had found Jock, and there had been no wrestling with an obdurate spirit to send him back home, like a man, to face the law and accept the penalty. There had been nothing to it. Jock had seen the light instantly, and with relief. His partner had also turned back after a decade of doubt and misery, to live a man's part "back home." The two of them had handed him a floating Bethel, turning their gambling hell over to him as though it were a night's lodging, or a snack, or a handful of hickory nuts. The temple of his fathers had been no better for its purpose than this beautiful, floating boat.