If I go, nobody will be saved; if I stay, no one will be lost but me.

I will stay.' There were two hundred persons on board, and no life was lost but the pilot's.

There used to be a monument to this young fellow, in that Memphis graveyard.

While we tarried in Memphis on our down trip, I started out to look for it, but our time was so brief that I was obliged to turn back before my object was accomplished.
The tug-boat gossip informed me that Dick Kennet was dead--blown up, near Memphis, and killed; that several others whom I had known had fallen in the war--one or two of them shot down at the wheel; that another and very particular friend, whom I had steered many trips for, had stepped out of his house in New Orleans, one night years ago, to collect some money in a remote part of the city, and had never been seen again--was murdered and thrown into the river, it was thought; that Ben Thornburgh was dead long ago; also his wild 'cub' whom I used to quarrel with, all through every daylight watch.

A heedless, reckless creature he was, and always in hot water, always in mischief.