Prebol shouted out for details, and the passer-by, slowing down, gave a few more: "Had trouble with the police, an' they shot him daid into his own dance floor--and Mendova's no good no more!" "Now what the boys goin' to do when they make a haul?" Prebol demanded in great disgust of Parson Rasba. "Fust the planters shot up whiskey boats; then the towns went dry, an' now they closed up Palura's an' shot him daid. Wouldn't hit make yo' sick, Parson! They ain't no fun left nowheres for good sports." Rasba could not make any comment. He was far from sure of his understanding. He felt as though his own life had been sheltered, remote from these wild doings of murders and shanty-boat-fleet dances and a congregation assembling in a gambling boat handed to him for a mission! He could not quite get his bearings, but the books blessed him with their viewpoints, as numerous as the points of the compass. He could not turn a page or a chapter without finding something that gave him a different outlook or a novel idea. They landed in late on Monday at Mendova bar, just above the wharf. Up the slough were many shanty-boats, and gaunt dogs and floppy buzzards fed along the bar and down the wharf. Groups of men and women were scattered along both the slough and the river banks, talking earnestly and seriously. Rasba, bound up town to buy supplies, heard the name of Palura on many lips; the policemen on their beats waltzed their heavy sticks about in debonair skilfulness; and stooped, rat-like men passing by, touched their hats nervously to the august bluecoats. When Rasba returned to the boat, he found a man waiting for him. "My name is Lester Terabon," the man said. "I landed in Saturday, and went up town. When I returned, my skiff and outfit were all gone--somebody stole them." "Sho!" Rasba exclaimed. "I've heard of you. You write for newspapers?" "Yes, sir, and I'm some chump, being caught that way." "They meant to rob you?" Rasba asked. "Why, of----I don't know!" Terabon saw a new outlook on the question. "Did they go down?" "Yes, sir, I heard so. I don't care about my boat, typewriter, and duffle; what bothers me is my notebooks. Months of work are in them. If I could get them back!" "What can I do for you?" "I don't know--I'm going down stream; it's down below, somewhere." "I need someone to help me," Rasba said. "I've a wounded man here who has a doctor with him. If he goes up to the hospital or stays with us, I'll be glad to have you for your help and company." "I'm in luck." Terabon laughed with relief. Just that way the Mississippi River's narrow channel brought the River Prophet and the river reporter together. Terabon went up town and bought some clothes, some writing paper, a big blank notebook, and a bottle of fountain-pen ink. With that outfit he returned on board, and a delivery car brought down his share of things to eat.