The weekly north Iowa times. [volume] (McGregor, Iowa) 1857-1867, 1867-02-06

cVcEN
gesture Of anxious haste, and eyebali
starting from their dusky heads, SOM
plunge the long rakes into the red mouth,
Of the furnace, twisting and turning th,
cracking mass with terrific strength, Will,
others hurl in the huge logs of resinou.
pine, already heated by the contact, til
they would burn like pitch. Then thu
great doors bang too, the yo! yo! Of ths
negroes dies away, and the whole hall il
! blacker from the contrast, while the Sena.
tor, putting denser clouds than ever
swings round the point hundred yards
ahead!
There is dead silence on our boat, 90
deep that the rough whisper of the pilot
to the knot around him is heard the whole
length of the deck, "Damnation! Ill
overstep yer yit, or bust"
"Good, old fellow!" responded STYLES
-" let her out, and I'll stand the wine!"
Then the "oA Colonel" walks to the
wheel, with his face purple, his glengary
pushed for back on his head, and his cigar
glowing like the "red eye of battle" as
he puffs angry wheezes Of smoke through
his nostrils. Damned hard, sir-hard |!
hard Egad I'd burn the last ham in
the locker to overtake her." and he whirl-
ed the glowing stump after the Senator, as
the Spartan youth hurled the shields into
the thick of battle, before rushing to re-
claim them. On we sped, until the trees
on the bank seem to fly back past us, and
round the point to see the Senator Just
turning another curve.
On still, faster than ever, with every
glass un board jingling in its frame. and
every joint and timber trembling, as with
a congestive chill
Still the black demons below ply their
fires with the fattest logs-and even few
barrels of pitch are silly slipped in-the
smoke behind us stretched straight and fiat
from the smoke-stacks.
Now we enter a straight, narrow reach,
with the Senator just before US. Faster
and faster we go, till the boat fairly rocks
and swings from side to side, half lifted
with every throb of the engine. Closer
and closer we creep-harder and harder
thump the cylinders until at last we clsoe,
our bow just tapping her stern!
So we run few yards. Little by little:
so little that we test it by counting their
windows we reach her wheel--pass by it
lock her bow and run neck in neck for a
hundred feet.
The stiffness of death is upon both boats:
not sound but the creak and shudder as
they struggle on. Suddenly the hard
voice of our pilot crashes through it like a
broadaxe
Good bye, Sen'tor III send yer a
tug!" and he gives the bell merry click.
Our huge boat gives one shuddering
throb that racks her from end to end
one plunge, and then she settles into
a steady rush, and forges rapidly and
evenly ahead. Wider and wider grows
the gap; and we wind out of sight with
the beaten boat FIVE hundred yards behind
US
The cigar took from my mouth to make
way for the deep, long sigh, is chewed to a
perfect pulp. A wild, pent-up yell of half
savage triumph goes up from the crowded
deck, such as is heard nowhere else but
where the captured work rewards the
bloody and oft-repeated charge. Cheer at
tor cheer follows and, as we approach the
trees between us, Styles bestrides the pros
trate form of the still sleeping professor,
and makes the calliope yell and shrek that
classic ditty, "Old Gray Horse come out
of the Wilderness!" at the invisible rival.
doubt if ever heartier toast was drank
than the Colonel gave the group around
the wheel-house, when Styles 'stood' the
wine plighted the pilot. The " Colonel
was beaming, the glengary set jauntily on
one side, and his voice actually gurgled as
he said
"Egad I'd miss my dinner for week
for this. Gentlemen, a toast Here's to
the old boat God bless her soul -