CHAPTER XXX.
AGROUND.
Not the boat.

The boat ran on safely enough to Louisville, and tied up at the levee, and discharged her sugar und molasses, and took on a new cargo of baled hay and corn and flour, and went back again, and made I know not how many trips, and ender her existence I can not tell how or when.

What does become of the old steamboats?
The Iatan ran for years after she tied up at Louisville that summer morning, and then perhaps she was blown up or burned up; perchance some cruel sawyer transfixed her; perchance she was sunk by ice, or maybe she was robbed of her engines and did duty as barge, or, what is more probable, she wore out like the one-hoss shay, and just tumbled to pieces simultaneously.
It was not the gambler who got aground that morning.

He had yet other nice little games, with three cards or more or none, to play.
It was not the mud-clerk who ran aground--good, non-committal soul, who never look sides where it would do him any harm, and who never worried himself about anything.

Dear, drawling, optimist philosopher, who could see how other people's mishaps were best for them, and who took good care not to have any himself! It was not he that ran aground.
It was not Norman Anderson who ran aground.