Another gentle touch, and, obeying the summons, the
motive power is still; the man subjects the monster with his little
finger. He has stopped her near the centre, where, with a slight
touch, he can turn back or forward. Again, he lifts a small key, and
the steam, with a deafening roar, issues from the escape: he is
venting his chest. Simultaneously the second bell sounds forth its
clanking medley: two minutes more, and the snake-like craft will be
buffeting the waves, on her daily errand. As passengers begin to
muster on board, their friends clustering round the capsill of the
wharf, obstructing the way, the sturdy figure of Mr. Pringle Blowers
may be seen behind a spile near the capsill, his sharp, peering eyes
scanning the ship from fore to aft. He is not sure she will get off
by this route; common sense tells him that, but there exists a
prompting something underneath common sense telling him it's money
saved to keep a sharp look-out. And this he does merely to gratify
that inert something, knowing at the same time that, having no
money, no person will supply her, and she must be concealed in the
swamps, where only "niggers" will relieve her necessities. At this
moment Rosebrook's carriage may be seen driving to the ticket office
at the head of the wharf, where Rosebrook, with great coolness, gets
out, steps within the railing, and procures the tickets in his own
name. Again taking his seat, the mate, who stands on the capsill of
the wharf, now and then casting a glance up, cries out, "Another
carriage coming!" Bradshaw cracks his whip, and the horses dash down
the wharf, scatter the people who have gathered to see the boat off,
as a dozen black porters, at the mate's command, rush round the
carriage, seize the baggage, and hurry it on board.
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