IN THE CHUTE

Below New Madrid the swollen river was so full that only the line of trees on either side indicated its borders. In many places it had so completely overflowed its banks that it was forty or fifty miles wide in fact. In other places, where the banks were high, the river was confined for brief spaces within its natural limits, and rushed forward with the speed of water in a mill-race.

The driftwood had by this time largely run out, and while there was still much of it in the river, its presence no longer involved any particular danger. Still, it was necessary to observe it; and it was especially necessary to keep a close watch on the boat’s course, lest she should be drawn into some bayou or pocket, where danger would impend.

Nevertheless, the boys had considerable leisure, and Ed devoted a good deal of the time, at their request, to expounding to them all the lore that he had gathered from his books. One day he brought out his map again, and got them interested in it until they lost sight of other things around them. For that matter, Jim Hughes was on the steering-bridge, and was supposed to be directing the course of the boat. It was his duty, of course, to call attention to anything that might need attention; so the boys allowed themselves to become absorbed in Ed’s explanations and in their own study of the map.

It was about sunset when Phil raised himself and took a look ahead. He suddenly sprang to his feet and called out hurriedly, but not excitedly, “Starboard sweep, boys.”

He himself ran to the steering-oar, and, in spite of some remonstrance from the pilot, took possession of it.

“What are you doing, Jim,” he called out, “running us into this chute? Give it to her, boys, with all your might.”

But it was of no use. It was too late. The boat had already been driven into the chute behind an island, and must now go through it. Jim Hughes had successfully managed that.

A chute is that part of the river which lies between an island and the shore nearest to it. At low water, the chutes in the Mississippi are not usually navigable at all. But when the river is high, they are deep enough and wide enough for a steamboat to pass through; and, as passing through the chute usually saves many miles of distance against a strong current, the steamboats going up the stream always “run the chute” when they can. But as these chutes are rarely wide enough, even in the highest water, for two boats to pass each other safely within them, the law forbids boats going down the river to run them at all.

Phil had been instructed in all this by Perry Raymond, and he was therefore much disturbed when he found the flatboat hopelessly involved in the head of the chute.

He explained in short, crisp, snappy sentences to his fellows the violation of law they were committing, and the danger there was of snags, fallen trees and other obstructions, in running the chute under the most favorable circumstances.

But he was in for it now, and there was only one thing to be done. Go through the chute he must. The problem was to get through it as quickly and as safely as possible. If he could get through it without meeting any up-coming steamer and without running the boat afoul of any snags or other obstructions, all would be well enough, except that it would still leave Jim Hughes’s action unexplained and puzzling. Should he meet a steamboat in the narrow passage, he must take the consequences, whatever they might happen to be. He kept the boys continually at the sweeps, in order to give him good steerage way; and earnestly adjured them to be alert, and to act instantly on any order he might give, to all of which they responded with enthusiasm.

“How long is this chute, Jim?”

“How do I know?” answered that worthy, or more properly, that unworthy.

“I thought you knew the river. You shipped as a pilot,” said the boy. “Hard on the starboard, boys; hard on the starboard! There, that’ll do. Let her float now!”

Then turning to Jim, he said again:—

“You shipped as a pilot. You pretended to know the river. Probably you do know it better than you now pretend. You deliberately ran us into this channel. You did it on purpose. You must know the chute then. What did you do it for? What do you mean by it?”

“Yes, I shipped as a pilot,” answered the surly fellow, “but I shipped without pay, you will remember. I was careful to assume no obligation for which I could be held responsible in law.”

Phil started back in amazement. Neither the sentence nor the assured forethought that lay behind it fitted at all the character of the ignorant lout that the man who spoke had pretended to be. Phil now clearly saw that all this man’s pretences had been false, that his character and his personality had been assumed, and that, for some purpose known only to himself, the fellow had been deceiving him from the start. Not altogether deceiving him, however, for Phil’s suspicions had already been so far aroused that it could not be said that he had been hoodwinked completely. But for these suspicions, indeed, he would not now so readily have observed the man’s speech and behavior. He would not so accurately have interpreted his truculence when he commanded him to “go to a sweep,” and the man answered, “Not if I know it!” and went to the cabin instead.

But at that moment Phil had no time to deal further with the fellow, or even to think of him. For just as dark was falling, the flatboat swung around a sharp bend in the chute, and came suddenly face to face with a great, roaring, glaring, glittering steamboat that was running the chute up stream at racing speed.

The steamboat whistled madly, and reversed her engines full force. The captain, the pilot, both the mates, all the deck-hands, all the roustabouts, and most of the male passengers on board shouted in chorus, with much of objurgation for punctuation marks, to know what the flatboat meant by running the chute down stream.

Phil paid no attention to the hullabaloo, but gave his whole mind to the problem of navigating his own craft. The steamboat’s wheels, as she backed water so mightily, threw forward great waves which, catching the flatboat under the bow, drove her stern-on toward the bank. By a vigorous use of the sweeps, and a great deal of tugging on his own part at the steering-oar, Phil managed to slew the boat around in time to prevent her going ashore; and fortunately there was just passageway enough to let her slip by the steamer, grazing the guards in passing.

It was the work of a very few minutes, but it seemed an age to the anxious boy; and as the steamer resumed her course, her crew sending back a volley of maledictions, his only thought was one of congratulation that he had escaped from so desperate an entanglement.

Just then, however, he observed Jim Hughes at the stern, climbing into the towed skiff, into which he had already thrown his carpet-bag. He observed also that before engaging in this manoeuvre the pilot had set up a handkerchief at the bow, apparently as a signal, and that some rough-looking men were gathered on the shore just astern.

Quick as a flash Phil realized that for some reason Jim Hughes was quitting the boat, and was in communication with the men on shore.

Without quite realizing why he should object to this, he proceeded to put a stop to it. He called to his comrades, who could now leave the oars, as the boat was floating out of the chute and into the main river again, to come to his assistance. Without parley they tumbled over the end of the boat into the skiff, which had not yet been cast loose, and there seized the runaway. He fought with a good deal of desperation, but five stalwart Hoosier boys are apt to be more than a match for any one man, however strong and however desperate he may be. They quickly overcame Jim Hughes and hustled him back on board the flatboat. There they held him down, while one of them, at Phil’s request, ran for some rope. A minute later they had their prisoner securely tied, both as to arms and as to legs, and dropped him, feet first, down the cabin stairs.

No sooner was he out of the way than the men on shore began firing at the flatboat. They had refrained prior to that time, apparently, lest they should hit their comrade, for such he manifestly was. Their firing was at long range, however, and it was now nearly dark. The swift current soon carried the boat wholly beyond reach of rifle-shots and out into the river. Lest the desperadoes on shore should follow in skiffs or otherwise, Phil ordered the boys to the sweeps again, and kept them there until they had driven the boat well over toward the opposite shore. Then he summoned a council of war.

THE FIGHT WITH THE PILOT.
“A minute later they had their prisoner securely tied.”

“What are we going to do with that fellow?” he asked.

“Well,” said Ed, “you have got him well tied and—”

“Yes, but,” said Irv, “have we any right to tie him? He hasn’t committed any crime.”

“Yes, he has,” said Phil. “At least, we caught him in the act of committing one. He was trying to steal one of Perry Raymond’s skiffs. That’s worth twenty-five dollars. If he hadn’t anything worse in his mind, his attempt on the skiff was grand larceny.”

“That’s so,” said Ed, “and we can turn him over to a magistrate at the first landing for that.”

“I don’t think I shall make any landing,” said Phil, “until we get to Memphis, and in the meantime I am going to know all there is to know about this fellow. When he came on board he had his hair shaved close with a barber’s mowing-machine, but, unfortunately for him, he didn’t bring one of the machines with him. His hair is growing out again now, and I have been comparing several of its little peculiarities closely with descriptions and portraits in the newspapers I got at Cairo of the fellow who is running away with that swag. Boys, I believe we have got the man.”

Phil’s comrades were positively dumb with astonishment. At last the silence was broken.

“If we have,” said Irv Strong, “this voyage will pay, for the rewards offered for this man are very heavy.”

“Yes,” said Phil; “I hadn’t thought of that, but that’s so. There are five thousand dollars on his capture.”

Just then there was a flash in the dark from the cabin scuttle, and a bullet whistled over the heads of the boys. Jim Hughes had managed to extricate himself, in part at least, from his bonds, and had begun to use a weapon which he had doubtless hidden before that time, and of which the boys had known nothing.

Ed was the first to act. He was always exceedingly quick to think. He called to the boys to follow him, and, disregarding Jim’s fusillade, ran to the scuttle.

In an instant, by their united efforts, they pushed the fellow back and closed the lid that covered the stairs. Then Ed remembered that there was a door leading out of the cabin into the hold of the boat. He suggested to two of the boys that they go below, and close that with bales of hay and the like. They did so hurriedly, piling the hay and some apple barrels against the door, until it would have required the strength of half a dozen men to push it open. In the meantime Ed had possessed himself of a hatchet and nails, and had securely nailed down the scuttle.

Just then Irv Strong thought of something.

“Suppose he gets desperate? He could easily set fire to things down there.”

“That’s so,” said Phil, who had just returned from the hold. “Bring the fire-extinguishers.”

By the time they got the four large carbonic acid receptacles a new thought had occurred to Ed.

“Bring an auger, boys. There’s one lying forward there. The big one.”

It was quickly brought, though none of the boys could guess what Ed intended to do. He took the auger, and quickly bored an inch hole in the scuttle. A flash and a bullet came through it, but nobody was hurt.

“Now, give me an extinguisher,” said Ed.

Putting the nozzle of the hose through the hole, he turned the apparatus upside down, and allowed its contents to be driven violently into the little cabin. When the first extinguisher was exhausted he turned on the hose of another, and after that of a third.

For a while the imprisoned man, shut up in a box ten feet by twelve and not over five or six feet high, indulged in lusty yells, but these soon became husky, and presently ceased entirely. The moment they did, Ed called out:—

“Rip off the scuttle quick, boys; he’s suffocated.”

The boys did not at all understand what had happened, but they acted promptly in obedience to their wisest comrade’s order. When the scuttle was opened and a lantern brought, Jim was seen lying limp at the foot of the little ladder.

“Now, be careful,” said Ed. “Irving, you and Phil—you’re the strongest—go down, hold your breath, and drag him up. Be sure to hold your breath. Do just as you do when you’re diving.”

They made an effort, but almost instantly came back, gasping for air, sneezing, and with eyes and noses tingling.

“Catch your breath quick,” said Ed, “and go down again. You must get him out, or he will be dead, if he isn’t dead already.”

They made another dash, this time acting more carefully upon the instruction to treat the descent as if it were a dive, and carefully holding their breath. In a brief while they dragged the body of the pilot out upon the deck, and Ed gave directions for restoring life by artificial respiration.

“You see, he’s practically a drowned man,” he said.

“Drowned?” said Will Moreraud. “Why, he’s not even been in the water, and that little dash with the hose wouldn’t drown a kitten.”

“Never mind that,” said Ed; “quick now; he’s drowned, or just the same thing. We must bring him to life.”

“Well, slip that rope around his arms and legs while we do it,” said Phil, “or we’ll have trouble when he comes to.”

This was a suggestion which they all recognized as altogether timely, and so the apparent corpse was carefully secured by two of the boys, while the rest worked at the task of restoring him to life.

He “came to” in a little while, and lay stretched out upon the deck, weak and exhausted. Then, at Ed’s suggestion, the boys went below by the forward door, rolled away the obstructions, and threw open the door of the cabin, so that all the air possible might pass through it. It was half an hour at least before breathing became comfortable in that little box. Then Phil made a thorough exploration of Jim’s carpet-bag, bunk, and everything else that pertained to him. His only remark as to the result of his personal inquiry was:—

“I guess we needn’t trouble ourselves about having arrested this man.”

While waiting for the air to render the cabin habitable again, Constant said, “But, Ed, how did he drown without going into the water? I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” said Will Moreraud; “but he was drowned all safe enough. I’ve seen too many drowned people not to know one when I see him.”

Then Ed explained:—

“That cabin is a little box about ten feet by twelve, and six feet high, and when shut up it’s nearly air tight. It contains only a little over seven hundred cubic feet of air. These chemical fire extinguishers are filled with water saturated with soda or saleratus. There is a bottle in each one, filled with oil of vitriol, or a coarse, cheap sort of sulphuric acid. It is so arranged that when you turn the thing upside down the bottle breaks, and the acid is dumped into the water. Now when you pour sulphuric acid into a mixture of water and soda, the soda gives off an enormous quantity of what is commonly called carbonic acid gas, though I believe its right name is carbon dioxide. At any rate, it is the same gas that makes soda water ‘fizz.’ But when you turn one of these machines upside down you get about ten or twenty times as much of the gas in the water as there is in the same quantity of soda water; and when you turn this doubled and twisted soda water loose it gives off its gas in enormous quantities. Now this gas is heavier than air, so when it was set loose down in the cabin there, it sank to the bottom, and the air floated on top of it. As the cabin filled up with the gas the air came out through the hole in the scuttle and the cracks round it. Pouring that gas into the cabin was just like pouring water into a jug; the gas took the place of air just as the water in the jug takes the place of the air that was in it at first.

“Suppose you let a lighted lantern down into the cabin, Will,” suggested the older boy, “and see what happens.”

Will did so, and the lantern went out as promptly as it would have done if plunged into water.

“You see,” said Ed, “this gas puts out fire, and it puts out life in the same way. It smothers both. It absolutely excludes oxygen, and neither animal life nor fire can exist without oxygen. Do I make the thing clear?”

“Perfectly,” said all the boys.

“Then that’s why we choked so when we went down the ladder?” said Phil.

“Certainly. Your air was as completely cut off as if you had dived into water. That’s why I cautioned you to hold your breath just as if you had been diving into the river.”