Regardless of the skipper's attitude, the departure was delayed because a postprandial nap of Sim's had allowed the steam to get low while the commanding officer persuaded the passengers to return aboard. Becoming aware of this condition, rough language was used abaft the beam, as the Captain addressed the crew. Mutiny was evidently rampant, as the crew was heard to invite the Captain to return home on foot if dissatisfied with its efforts. Then came arbitration, and, after a time, above the noise of argument, the hissing of steam sounded in increasing volume. The shadows of night lay upon the waters as the _Nancy Jane_ left Elgin's Grove. Since it was too dark for the navigator to procure his accustomed view of the river bottom, he peered into the gloom with anxious eyes. Upon the banks the tops of the trees showed clear against the evening sky; but the shadowy mass below was of a nature to baffle the judgment of all but the most experienced pilots. Mr. Quince was not baffled. He laid the _Nancy Jane_ upon a course down the middle of the stream, and, laying aside the tiller, he retired to the engine room where, in a voice which reached every ear upon the lightless deck, he conversed with the engineer regarding the more intimate details of navigation. "How much steam have you got on the old tea pot?" he asked, and when Sim told him, complained, "That hain't enough to make this yere turtle crawl home." "It's all this leaky kettle kin hold," objected the engineer. Mr. Quince made technical explanations. "Steam is a blowin' out of the safety valve. That's where yer air losin' power. I cal'late the old flat iron is er slippin'. I'll fix 'er." The shuffling of feet sounded. "How kin you tell where you are a-puttin' that flat iron?" protested Sim. "You're a goin' to bust the darned oil biler a foolin' with that valve in the dark. You can't see what you're doin' no more than a mole." "I hain't slipped 'er out er notch. She's where she orter be. This biler hain't er goin' to blow up. What's it to yer any way; it hain't your biler." "Ain't I got to stand by the blame thing?" "What's eatin' on yer?" asked Mr. Quince, a trifle obscurely. "Yer know dern well you're too blame lazy to shovel enough coal under the old wash biler to git her het up none before we git home." This struck Sim as reasonable. He changed the subject and inquired, "Where are we?" A voice remarkably like that of Mr. Quince, although it could not have been that experienced river man, responded, "I dunno."