At last the ball ended, the guests departed, save those who had engaged passage for the grand excursion, and they had retired for the night, to dream of the sport to be enjoyed on the morrow, while Captain Quitman paced proudly on the hurricane deck, with heart swelling with satisfaction at the pecuniary prospects before him. CHAPTER II. The eventful and long-looked-for day on which the “White Rose of Memphis” was to start on her first trip had come at last, and a mighty stir, indeed, did that day produce on and under the tall, romantic bluff in front of Memphis. The morning was delightful, the atmosphere pure and invigorating, the sweet odor of fresh spring flowers was on the breeze, mingling with the soft notes of music produced by the band from the hurricane deck. The stars and stripes floated gracefully from the flag-staff, dark clouds of black smoke rose from the chimneys, a white cloud of steam struggled up through the black smoke and disappeared far above, innumerable drays rattled along the pavement, carriages thundered over the rocky road, carriage drivers swore at dray drivers, dray drivers returned the compliment with interest, in language not of a religious nature, deck hands sung “Dixie,” cabin boys danced juber, chamber-maids darted hither and thither, apparently anxious to perform their duty, without the slightest conception of what that duty was. A villainous urchin, in the arms of his nurse, was making a heart-rending noise with a tin horn, and a passenger muttered something not taught at Sunday-school. “Them’s my sentiments to a T,” said another man who had been annoyed with the tin horn. As the hour drew near when the boat was to start the confusion increased. The pilot was at his wheel, the engineer was at his engine; Captain Quitman stood on the upper deck in front of the pilot house, looking happy, and feeling vastly important. Hundreds of men, women and children in holiday costumes stood on the bluff, shouting and waving white handkerchiefs to their friends on the boat. A mocking-bird in a cage on the boiler deck imitated every imaginable sound with his wonderful voice, while a parrot, perched on a pole near the clerk’s office, kept crying, “Let her rip! let her rip, Sam!” “How much steam have you got, Tom?” cried the pilot through his speaking-tube. “One sixty, sir, and still rising.” “All right; blow off the mud valves and keep a good head; we must make a good run at the start.” “Time’s up, Dave; let her go,” said the captain. “Run her up to the mouth of Wolf, make a turn to the left, and then let her come down with her best speed.” “Let go the head line,” cried the mate. “Draw in the stage,” says the captain. “Go ahead on the larboard, and back on the starboard,” cried the pilot to the engineer. “Go ahead on the steward, and back on the cook-house,” cries a mischievous little negro, who is dancing a jig in front of the pilot house.