At about a hundred yards off, she would start whistling like mad, and the people would come and lean over the side, and roar at us; but we never heard them! Harris would be telling us an anecdote about his mother, and George and I would not have missed a word of it for worlds.
Then that launch would give one final shriek of a whistle that would nearly burst the boiler, and she would reverse her engines, and blow off steam, and swing round and get aground; everyone on board of it would rush to the bow and yell at us, and the people on the bank would stand and shout to us, and all the other passing boats would stop and join in, till the whole river for miles up and down was in a state of frantic commotion.

And then Harris would break off in the most interesting part of his narrative, and look up with mild surprise, and say to George: "Why, George, bless me, if here isn't a steam launch!" And George would answer: "Well, do you know, I _thought_ I heard something!" Upon which we would get nervous and confused, and not know how to get the boat out of the way, and the people in the launch would crowd round and instruct us: "Pull your right--you, you idiot! back with your left.

No, not _you_--the other one--leave the lines alone, can't you--now, both together.

NOT _that_ way.

Oh, you--!" Then they would lower a boat and come to our assistance; and, after quarter of an hour's effort, would get us clean out of their way, so that they could go on; and we would thank them so much, and ask them to give us a tow.