Old Heinzman," he
added as an afterthought, "is stringing booms across the river--
obstructing navigation."
He ran down the length of the whole boom to where lay the two tugs.
"Marsh," he called when still some distance away, "got up steam?"
There appeared a short, square, blue-clad man, with hard brown
cheeks, a heavy bleached flaxen moustache, and eyes steady,
unwavering, and as blue as the sky.
"Up in two minutes," he answered, and descended from the pilot house
to shout down a low door leading from the deck into the engine room.
"Harvey," he commanded, "fire her up!"
A tall, good-natured negro reached the upper half of his body from
the low door to seize an armful of the slabs piled along the narrow
deck. Ten minutes later the SPRITE, a cloud of white smoke pouring
from her funnel, was careening down the stretch of the river.
Captain Marsh guided his energetic charge among the logs floating in
the stream with the marvellous second instinct of the expert tugboat
man. A whirl of the wheel to the right, a turn to the left--the
craft heeled strongly under the forcing of her powerful rudder to
avoid by an arm's-length some timbers fairly flung aside by the
wash. The displacement of the rapid running seemed almost to press
the water above the level of the deck on either side and about ten
feet from the gunwale.
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