THE LAST LANDING

As The Last of the Flatboats passed the upper part of New Orleans, the boys were disposed to gaze at the strangely beautiful city. It was greater in size than any city that they had ever seen; for none of them had visited Cincinnati, though they had lived all their lives within sixty or seventy miles of it. New Orleans was different in architecture, situation, and everything else from Louisville and Memphis, cities at which they had looked up from the river, while at New Orleans they found themselves looking down, and taking almost a bird’s-eye view of the city. Then, too, the palm gardens, the evergreen trees, and glimpses every now and then of great parterres of flowers, growing gayly in the open air even in late autumn, filled them with the feeling that somehow they had come into a world quite different from any they had ever dreamed of before.

Finally, there were the miles of levee, thickly bordered with steamships and sailing craft of every kind, all so new to them as to be a show in their eyes. The forests of masts, the towering elevators, the wharves piled high with cotton in bales and sugar in hogsheads and great piles of tropical fruits, appealed strongly to their imaginations. There was a soft languor in the atmosphere, and the red sunlight shone through a sort of Indian summer haze, which made the city look dream-like, or as if seen through a fleecy, pink veil.

Presently Phil put an end to their musings.

“Stand by the sweeps!” he called, himself going to the steering-oar. “We must make a landing, if we ever find a vacant spot at the levee that’s big enough to run into.”

“I say, Phil,” said Irv, presently, “there comes somebody in a skiff to meet us; perhaps it’s some wharf-master to tell us where to land.”

A few minutes later the skiff, rowed by a stout negro man, reached the boat, and a carefully dressed young man who had sat in the stern dismissed the negro and his skiff, and came aboard.

To Phil he handed his card, introducing himself as one of the freight clerks of the commission merchant to whom the planter had recommended them. It appeared that the planter had not been content with giving them a letter of introduction, but had written by mail from Vicksburg, and this was the result.

“Mr. Kennedy thought you might have some difficulty in finding the proper landing, so he told me to board you and show you the way.”

Phil thanked him, and under the man’s guidance The Last of the Flatboats made the last of her landings.

The young man seemed to know what to do about everything and how to do it. First of all he called an insurance adjuster on board to inspect the cargo. This, he explained, was necessary so that all insurance claims might be adjusted.

“I’m afraid the flour must be pretty wet,” said Phil.

“Why? is it in bags?” asked the clerk.

“No, in barrels.”

“You can rest easy, then,” said the clerk. “You can’t wet flour in a barrel. See there!” and he pointed to a ship that was taking on flour near by. “That’s flour for Rio Janeiro, and you observe that the crane souses every barrel of it into the river before hoisting it to the ship’s deck.”

“So it does,” said one of the boys. “But what is that for?”

“To make the flour keep in a hot climate,” answered the clerk. “Wetting the barrel closes up all the cracks between the staves, by making a thick paste out of the flour that has sifted into them. That makes the barrel water-tight, insect-tight, and even air-tight.”

“But I should think the water would soak into the flour inside,” said Will.

“Can’t do it. Wouldn’t wet an ounce of flour if you left a barrel in the river for a month. Flour is packed too tight for that.”

“I say, Phil,” said Irv. “Let’s go back and get those three barrels we left in the river when we were putting the tarpaulin on.”

“Have you a memorandum of your freight, captain?” asked the clerk. “If so, please let me have it, and I’ll make out a manifest.”

Phil handed him the little book in which he had catalogued the freight as it was received. Phil had not the slightest idea what a “manifest” might be, but he asked no questions. “I prefer to find out some things through my eyes,” he said to himself. So he watched the clerk, who spread out some broad sheets of paper on the little cabin table and proceeded to make out a formal manifest, or detailed statement of the freight on board what the manifest called “the good ship The Last of the Flatboats.” It was all arranged in columns, and it showed from whom each shipment came, and that each was consigned to the house of Mr. Kennedy. Having finished this, the clerk proceeded to make out a duplicate, which he explained was to be sent to the Exchange, so that an accurate record might be made there for statistical purposes.

“I see,” said Phil. “That is the way statistics are got together, showing how much of every kind of product is shipped into and out of each commercial city.”

“Certainly,” answered the clerk, “but, excuse me, here come the reporters. Here, boys, make your own manifests,” and with that he handed one of his copies to the newspaper men. They scribbled rapidly on paper pads for a brief while and then returned the manifest. Phil wondered, but asked no questions. “What these men wrote is for publication in newspapers, so I’ll look in the newspapers to-morrow and see what it is.” When he did so, he found under the headline “Manifest,” merely a condensed list of the boat’s freight with the name of the Kennedy commission house as “consignees.” This condensed statement of freights and consignees is published daily with reference to every boat that arrives, for the information not only of the consignees, but also of other merchants and speculators who want to buy, and to that end want to know who has things to sell.

The boys were deeply interested, but their studies in commercial methods were destined to be of brief duration. For the clerk left them almost immediately. Later in the day he came again and said to Phil:—

“You’re rather in luck, captain. The market for western produce is up to-day. Apples were particularly high.”

“Will they stay up long enough for us to work ours off?” asked Phil.

“Work yours off?” exclaimed the clerk, in astonishment. “Why, you’ve sold out, bag and baggage, flatboat and all, two hours ago. I came down to make delivery. The buyer’s clerk will be here immediately.”

It was all astonishing to the western boys, but the clerk was good-natured, and explained while he waited for the buyer’s clerk. He told them how Mr. Kennedy went to a big room called “’change,” where all the other merchants were gathered, showed his manifest, and in five minutes had sold out everything.

“But,” said Irv, “nobody has been here to look at the goods. How does the buyer know what the things are like?”

“Why, produce is all classified, and we sell by classes. I looked over this cargo and reported quality and condition. We made sales accordingly. When we deliver, the buyer’s clerk will look at the things, and if any of them are not up to the grade represented, he’ll reject them or take them at a reduction, and so on. If we can’t agree, the matter will be referred to a committee of ’change, and their decision is final. Both sides are bound by it.”

“But what if either refused?”

“Well—” hesitated the clerk, “that couldn’t very well happen; but if it did, the merchant refusing would have to leave ’change, and go out of business. You see, all business of this kind is done on ’change, and if a merchant isn’t a member there, he simply can’t do any business at all. But pardon me, here comes the buyer’s clerk. I must get to work. Oh, by the way, here’s the card of a comfortable, inexpensive hotel; Mr. Kennedy told me to give it to you. He’ll call to see you there.”

“But why can’t we stay on the boat till her buyer is ready to take her away?”

“Oh, he’ll do that this afternoon. He’ll drop her down to his own warehouse, unload her, and by this time to-morrow she’ll be nothing but a pile of lumber on shore somewhere.”

“It fairly makes my head swim,” said Irv, “to see the way these city people go at things.”

“Mine too,” said Phil. “But I see clearly that that’s the way to get things done, and it’s the way we ought to manage in our study club when we get home.”

“But how? We can’t have a big ’change and all that sort of thing.”

“I didn’t mean as to details,” said Phil. “I referred to the spirit of the thing. When these people have anything to do, they do it at once and with all their might. Then they drop that as something done for, and without an instant’s delay they turn to something else. That’s the way we must manage.”

“All right,” said Will Moreraud. “Now that we’re done with the flatboat let’s go at once to the hotel. First thing is to pack baggage.”

So they all set about getting their little belongings together.

“What about our blankets, and the stove, and the cooking-utensils and the remains of our food supplies, and our water filter, and the fire extinguishers, and the tools?” asked Constant Thiebaud, in consternation. “It’ll take a day or two to sell them out.”

“Not if we set the right man at it,” said Phil. “I’ll go and see him.”

So he went to the merchant’s clerk, who instantly said:—

“Pile ’em all out on the levee there, and put a card on top saying, ‘For sale—inquire on board the flatboat.’ I’ll sell ’em and render you an account.”

“All right,” said Phil, “but you’ll accept your commission, of course?”

“Of course. Business is business. We never work for our health on the levee.”